Playbills Don't Pay Bills
by TheRealAlyshebaFan
Summary: How did Shakespeare get mixed up with a Psych fic?  Well, that remains to be discovered.
1. Playbills Don't Pay Bills

Playbills Don't Pay Bills

An Alternate Universe version of "_Psych_". Shules exists (er…for _now_). Marlowe doesn't.

I own nothing. I have no money, except for a savings account that will pay for my funeral at best. Please, Powers That Be, just remember that turnips cannot be bled.

I'm having to read _Hamlet_, people. _Hamlet_. It's so depressing. I can only hope I can make it rather fun. Add Woody to the mix, and how can it not be? I'm not a Shakespeare expert, by the way. I'm getting commentary stuff from online sources. The volume I have of Shakespeare's plays is in tiny print. I could go blind trying to read that thing. I also used to not have a clue what a 'fardel' was. Until recently, I thought it was some kind of rodent.

What? What'd you think a fardel was? C'mon. Be honest!

* * *

><p>Detective Juliet O'Hara looked around the huge auditorium and had to resist the temptation to whistle or yell something, just to see if there would be an echo. A place this size surely had great acoustics. She peered down at the stage, far below, and saw Woody and two other ME's standing there, looking down at the murdered form of one Sir Reginald Livingstone, who had been died after the final scene in <em>Hamlet<em> – apparently, one of the goblets that were supposed to contain poison for the scene actually _did_ contain poison and Sir Reginald was still lying on the stage, several of the actors standing around nearby and looking fairly unhappy.

As she approached, Woody raised his head and waved cheerily at her. "Detective O'Hara! Where's Detective Lassiter?"

"He's on his way," she said, climbing up onto the stage. "He had an…emergency to deal with. Why are you out here?" She didn't mean to sound rude, but she had never seen Woody at a crime scene before.

"I'm covering for the ME today. He's got stomach flu." Woody nodded. He gestured to the dead man at his feet. "_He_ had a slightly more serious condition, apparently. When will Detective Lassiter be here?"

Juliet knew that Woody liked Carlton far more than Carlton appeared to like Woody. Frankly her partner only seemed to like a small handful of people (she was pleased to include herself in that small, select and very honored group), tolerated some people, and generally loathed the rest of earth's inhabitants. He had even made a vague Austen reference one day, to her, during a high speed chase through a rough part of town: 'The more I see of the world, the less I am satisfied with it', which hadn't sounded extremely Lassiterish, but then again, he frequently surprised her with his wide range of interests and almost encyclopedic knowledge of literature.

The sound of the theater doors opening made her turn to see not her partner coming in – that would cause several people up front to run away and cover their ears, and Juliet to feel a little calmer – but instead, her boyfriend and his obsequious sidekick. Juliet sighed. It was going to be a long night.

"Hark! What light through yonder window breaks! It is…bad lighting, actually, and Juliet…Juliet is the sun!" Shawn yelled as he and Gus made their way down the aisle and to the steps leading up to the stage. "Hey, babe. What's up?"

"I thought I told you not to follow me to this scene."

"But how on earth are you going to solve this crime without my help?" Shawn grinned, climbing up the steps and rounding her to look down at the body of the famous and now very dead English actor.

"Why, thank you, Shawn, for pointing out what an investigational ninny I am," she said with acid sweetness. "All that training was for nothing."

Shawn barely even seemed to recognize her sarcasm. "Oh, wait, Lassie's not here? That was aimed at _him_, of course."

"And by way of insulting him, you insult _me_," she nodded. Gus cleared his throat nervously, and she went on. "So I thank you so much, Shawn, on behalf with the entire Santa Barbara police department, aka the Keystone Kops…which is why I _didn't_ want you to come here." She turned back to the little clutch of actors standing nearby and gestured to them. "Can anybody tell me what happened this evening?"

"He was doing the final scene with Tom, and took a drink from this goblet," an actress said, stepping forward and picking up one of the two goblets on the tablet. "He went on with the scene, and must have died shortly after the final line was said, because when the audience started applauding, he didn't get up…or move, and believe me, when he hears applause, he rolls over and bows."

"Yeah, and whenever you see a good-looking, available man, you roll over and shave your legs," one of the other actors said with a snide little snicker.

"And what is your name?" Juliet asked, opening her notebook.

"Caroline Watson," the actress said, shooting a dirty look at the actor who had insulted her.

Shawn and Gus looked at each other, and Gus finally stepped forward, looking awestruck. "Weren't you on that show a few years ago…_Galaxerotica_?"

"Yes. I was," she said in a sharp voice, eyes narrowing.

Shawn looked delighted. "I still have that issue of_…_uh…that magazine. I must say, that photo of those aliens giving you a full…uh…physical…was very tastefully done!"

Caroline didn't look terribly happy about that, and finally turned back to Juliet. "Anyway, he was dead. We decided to wait 'til the audience was gone before we called the police. No use causing a panic."

Juliet raised her eyebrows. "So it was poison?"

"Obviously," Caroline shrugged.

"Is there anyone here who would want to poison him?" Juliet asked, scribbling on her notepad.

"Oh, well, there's the cast, and then there's the production crew, the director, the producer, his cat, possibly his mother…" Caroline said with a shrug. "Everybody hated the son of a bitch. We're not really happy he's dead, but if you knew him, you'd know his inevitable exit from this mortal coil would be by somebody with a bare bodkin. Or a glass of poisoned grog."

"Oh, well, that narrows it down," Juliet said. "Thank you, Miss Watson."

"It's _Ms_," Caroline corrected icily and turned to stalk away. Juliet looked at the rest of the cast members still standing there, and they all just shrugged. No one seemed upset about Livingstone's death, nor did anyone seem gleeful about it. Most of them, in fact, seemed fairly indifferent about it.

"We'll need to speak with the remaining cast members and crew," she told Watson. Just then, she heard the doors open and glanced across the auditorium to see her partner striding in. He paused inside the door, looking around, adjusting his eyes to the lighting. The lights from the chandeliers overhead brought out the grey in his hair, and even from several yards away she could see the startling blue of his eyes – they were an _irritated_ blue. He spoke rather sharply to a man at the door who had the nerve to get in his way, then stalked up the aisle, looking around and climbing up the steps.

"Huh," he said, looking around the scene. "Hamlet. A hall in Elsinore." He looked down at the dead actor. "So who offed the sweet prince of Denmark? I take it it wasn't Laertes"

"We're trying to figure that out," Juliet told him.

"Hey, Lassie!" Shawn said, waving happily and bouncing over. "This ought to be fairly easy for me to solve. Just sit down and relax and we'll take care of every…"

Carlton just smiled indulgently and handed Spencer a Snickers bar. "Here you go."

"Ooh, thanks, Lassie!" Shawn said, tearing into the bar and walking away, Guster at his heels, trying to get his attention, to no avail.

"What was that?" Juliet asked, once the two young men were safely out of earshot.

"Experiment." Carlton squatted down and examined the dead body. "From now on, it's either candy or mathematics."

Woody, smiling happily at the sight of his favorite detective, came over.

"Detective! So good to see you!"

"Yes, and great to see you, too, Woody, and oh, by the way, did you notice the dead guy…who is wearing tights?" He stepped back from the body. "It has to be said – tights just don't look good on almost anybody. You have to be twenty and very firm to look good in tights."

"Yeah," Woody nodded. "The tights…they can do a lot for you when you're thin and in shape, but when you're middle-aged and kinda…saggy…no. I learned this from unfortunate personal experience, too. Let's just say that gym revoked my membership after just one day. Sometimes, I can still hear the sobbing."

"You should know that I will _not_ be asking for a recounting of that experience, Woody," Juliet said, softening her comment with a little smile.

"I've got photos!" Woody grinned.

Carlton noticed a small amount of powder on the right side of the dead man's mouth. "Either this guy was into powdered doughnuts – thus not looking good in tights – or the goblet might still have some of the poison on its rim." He stood and went to the table, on which the two ornate goblets still sat. He picked one up and ran his finger around the rim, picking up more of the same white powder. He sniffed carefully at it and frowned. "No scent." A CSU member came over and held open a plastic bag, into which Carlton placed the cup, while the remaining powder was shaken into another, smaller, bag.

Juliet looked around the stage for any other clues. All she could see was the background painting of the hall of a castle, a cheap-looking but well-maintained tapestry depicting the violent mauling of a deer by a group of hounds, the table on which the two goblets had been placed, and a pair of thrones. An older woman came clicking onto the stage from the right wing, holding her skirt up a little, stiletto heels tapping on the stage boards. She looked down at the body of the dead actor and her eyes widened with shock. "Reggie!"

"And you are?" Juliet asked, still a little distracted by the tapestry of the unhappy deer and his assailants.

"Queen Gertrude…" Carlton started, but shook his head as if to clear it. "Ma'am? I take it you knew the victim?"

"Yes…" She said,

"In a professional or Biblical sense?" he asked, eyeing her critically and flipping open his notepad.

"Both," one of the actors, the same one who had earlier insulted Caroline Watson, said with a grin.

Carlton gave the actor an icy glare, and the man's smile faded and he nudged another actor, whispering something. The other man studied Carlton for a moment and whispered something to his companion, who nodded.

"What's your name, ma'am?" Carlton began again.

"Grace Atwood."

Carlton nodded. "Right. I saw you a few years ago in…Othello? Desdemona, right?"

"Yes." She stared at him intently. "Have I seen you somewhere?"

"Doubt it. So you and whatsisname here…" He peered down at the body of the dead actor. "Livingstone. Right. You and Livingstone were…er…_close_?"

"We have been, a few times," Grace said with a delicate shrug.

"Actresses," Carlton muttered, writing on his notepad. "All right. I don't guess you would know who'd poison him, would you?"

"Everybody hated him," she said. "Well…not all at the same time."

"We'll be in touch," Carlton finally said, as a pair of men from the coroner's office came up with a gurney. He and O'Hara watched as Livingstone – who had won a Tony and a BAFTA – was zipped up into a body bag and hauled away. He looked at his partner, who raised her eyebrows. "A cast of thousands, so far as witnesses and potential killers go, huh?"

"Looks like it."

"Got any ideas? See anybody acting…" He snorted. "_Behaving_ strangely?"

"There was another actress…" She turned back to look at the cast members, who were still milling around on the stage. "Can someone go find Caroline Watson, please?" she asked the cast's resident insulter, who grinned and went in search of the actress. He and Watson returned a few moments later, and the actress – a willowy blonde with flashing green eyes and a very emphatic figure – looked at Carlton with interest.

"Miss…?"

"Ms. Watson. Caroline Watson."

"Yeah. Did you see or hear anything, ma'am? See anybody adding powder to the grog in the goblet? Skulking about in a murderous manner? Making serious threats against Livingstone? Or just anything interesting or unusual?"

"I'm afraid not, Detective." Caroline was eyeing Carlton with great interest, and Juliet felt a frisson of genuine alarm and something else she didn't want to think about, because it was inappropriate. This woman was a man-eater, definitely, and her partner was not up for _that_, however tough he might be in a brawl or when bringing down a perp. Emotionally, she knew, he was still fairly fragile. He had already had his heart torn out and stomped flat by his ex-wife. He didn't need _drama_ too. "I don't believe you told me your name," she said in a slightly breathy voice. Juliet rolled her eyes.

"Carlton Lassiter," he said. "_Galaxerotica_, right?"

She frowned, and Juliet felt much happier, and very proud of her partner for his ability to say the inappropriate thing at just the right moment.

Caroline looked a little disgruntled. "Yes. You saw the series?"

"I…uh…glimpsed it. Sometimes I get a free month of that channel. Any grudge between yourself and Livingstone?"

"Hated the bastard, but I didn't kill him." She was still studying him, her gaze moving from his leather-clad feet to his Irish hairline, taking it all in and clearly liking what she was seeing. Juliet had to admit the woman had good _taste_, at least. Carlton always did look good in that suit – black pants, charcoal jacket, white shirt, midnight-blue tie – and he had apparently not had time to shave before leaving home, because he now had a bit of five o'clock shadow. Even better, he was letting his hair grow a little longer. All in all, he looked amazing. He was even starting a bit of a tan, which she had commented on one day and had gotten a vague growl in response. "Theater buff?"

"What?"

"Do you enjoy the theater, Detective?"

"Not a lot, no," he answered shortly. He flipped his notebook closed and stuffed it into his breast pocket. "Thank you, Miss Watson." He glanced over at the cast. "You'll all be available for witness statements and the like, right?" The actors nodded, murmuring vaguely. Woody clomped over, grinning happily, but stopped at the scene unfolding on the stage and looked confused.

"I'm very definitely…_available_, Detective," Caroline said with a gamine little smile.

Juliet wanted to tear the little tramp's hair out.

"Er…good. Right. Well...uh…I mean…um…yes. We'll call…" He was starting to look very uncomfortable now, his brow furrowing and forming two worried black lines. He took a step back.

"Perhaps you could give me your card? I know Detectives carry cards…"

He fished one out of his pocket and handed it to her, and Caroline's fingers brushed his as she took it, smiling at him as he continued to look uneasy. Juliet snatched out one of her own and handed it to the actress, who gave her a 'What the hell?' look but took it anyway.

"Thank you, Detective…s. If I think of anything, I'll call you." She only put the slightest emphasis on 'you' and made eye contact with him again, and Juliet saw the tops of her partner's ears turn red.

Woody squeezed Carlton's shoulder as Caroline turned away. "You wouldn't believe what they've got backstage! Two real human skulls, a bunch of brass crowns, several fencing swords…the works!"

"It's _Hamlet_, Woody," Carlton said patiently. "And how many times do I have to tell you not to touch me?"

Woody removed his hand. "Are you familiar with _Hamlet_? I saw it once. Didn't really get what they were talking about, and then everybody was dead. Bodkins and farting bears…"

Carlton closed his eyes, counting to ten. "Fardels bear…what would fardels bear," Carlton corrected wearily. He was starting to get a headache.

"Oh. Right. Oh…" Woody followed them down the steps and toward the exit. "What are fardels, then?"

"Uh…it means 'burden'. It's basically about how we bear the burden – the weight – of our sorrows instead of offing ourselves with a bare bodkin, which would be the sensible thing to do. But that would just send us off into that undiscover'd country, from whose bourn no traveler returns," Carlton explained, opening the door for Juliet and letting her pass through first. "Thus conscious does make cowards of us all."

"Really?" Woody asked. "I thought it was just spiders. I know they make a coward of me!"

"Dust bunnies make a coward of you, Woody," Juliet pointed out.

"Oh, geez, they sure do. Found one under my desk one day and screamed like a ten-year old girl. Hey, can I ride back with you two? And can we stop for donuts?"

"Sure, Woody," Carlton said with a sigh. "But for God's sake, can you not lick the powder off until _after_ you buy them?"

Behind them, up on the stage, Spencer and Guster reappeared, Shawn having consumed his Snickers bar while wandering around backstage and getting in trouble with the set director for playing with the fencing swords and making the skulls perform a scene from _Heathers_. He looked around, finding no audience, and frowned. "Where'd everybody go?"


	2. Pencils Down!

I own nothing, except the OC's.

I'm currently grappling with audition scenarios for the next chapter.

* * *

><p>Carlton was surprised to see the director of the Traveling Shakespeare Theatre Company come into the station, looking – like every director he had ever known – rather harried. The musty-looking little man peered around the station for a moment before finally making his way to Vick's office. Carlton resumed reading through a fascinating website about chicken breeding, grateful to not have to deal with <em>that<em> just yet.

A man had come into the station yesterday morning complaining that someone was stealing his prize-winning Araucanas and he wanted a stakeout to be conducted at his home, with the purpose of catching said chicken pincher. Carlton was only brought into the case by Miller, who had the most experience with crimes involving animals but also had an almost hysterical bird dander allergy (complete with hives, swellings, and red eyes) and couldn't handle such a case. McNab had confessed – unable to meet Carlton's eye – that he was afraid of chickens ("It's their beady eyes, sir. I just can't handle the way they _look_ at me."), and so he also wasn't able to take on the case. Carlton was therefore brought in to set up a sting, called Operation Cluck (ala Dobson).

Some snooping around had uncovered a feud between the chicken breeder and his next door neighbor, who hated being awakened at five each morning by the Araucanas, and after just a few minutes of questioning the neighbor had confessed, was slapped with a fine, returned the chickens and hadn't looked pleased when Carlton had suggested earplugs.

Up until yesterday, Carlton hadn't given much thought to chickens. He bought whole chickens at the market sometimes, and made a mean gnocchi (O'Hara begged him to bring her some every time she got a cold, and it didn't escape him that she got colds a lot lately), and his Western omelets were to die for (O'Hara being, yet again, being the one who begged him to make her one every now and then), but for the most part he didn't think much about chickens as actual individuals.

He wasn't Conan the Barbarian, so he didn't kill his own food (except for fish and the odd hunting trip for elk and mule deer), and the idea of 'cranking' a chicken until its head came off, like his grandmother had always done, held little appeal, and neither did watching the poor creature flop around the yard until it finally keeled over. Axing them, as his grandfather had done, had once resulted in a headless chicken doing one-oh-nine and three down the road and disappearing into town.

Carlton had stood in the chicken breeder's yard for a while, watching the chickens as they clucked around, with their bizarre handlebar moustache-shaped ear tufts and peculiar (well, for a chicken) way of walking. They had kept pecking at his feet, which hadn't irritated him much at all, and so he had become somewhat curious about them. The Araucana, he had found, laid colored eggs – blues and greens, usually, depending on the hybrid types developed in North America. He had gone from Araucanas to Buff Orpingtons at the chicken enthusiast website (there was a future arrest in there somewhere, he was sure), which were really rather pretty, and enormous, which meant a really good roasting hen. He recalled his grandmother always kept Leghorns and Domineckers.

He bookmarked the page as O'Hara came clicking over, wearing her high heels _again_, in spite of his harping at her about wearing sensible shoes that wouldn't ruin her back and give her bad ankles, and moved back to the SBPD's main page. She sat down, and he could tell she wasn't happy. In fact, she looked _angry_.

Carlton cleared his throat, and she looked at him. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Right." He clapped his laptop shut and glanced at Henry Spencer, who only raised one eyebrow by about half a degree before returning to his cost reports. Carlton pulled an arrest report out of his desk and started reading it.

"I mean…I mean, how much can one person _eat_? Really? How much?"

"Set the scene – hot dog eating contest, or are we talking about just another meal with Spencer?"

"After a while, it became _both_!" she hissed, shuffling some papers and slamming them into drawers with enough force to be felt downstairs. For a second, Carlton remembered his grandmother describing somebody as 'mad as a wet hen'. At this point, he doubted O'Hara would appreciate such a comparison.

So he was _learning_ to edit his comments. He figured he deserved some credit for that.

He scratched the back of his neck. There really was no use in him adding his own two cents to the subject. Best to just shut his yap and wait for the earth to turn a little more and she would forgive the idiot _again_ and go back to being her usual sunny, happy self. He could cope with sunny O'Hara. Angry O'Hara had access to firearms and even Carlton wasn't stupid enough to cross her then.

Funny how she could cross _him_ when he was thoroughly ticked off about something.

God, she was beautiful when she was angry. He knew that was a little clichéd, but no matter, it was still true. Of course, she was breathtaking when she was happy, too. He rather preferred her happy, though, and he sat back, trying to think of something that might snap her out of her foul mood. _If she'd just dump the moron, she'd probably have normal blood pressure and I would have…_ No, don't think that way, he told himself, feeling his own good chicken-trivia induced fairly good mood fading away due to ridiculous fantasies about things he could never, ever have. Women like Juliet O'Hara did not _ever_ go for grouchy, awkward, graying men, and only in his dreams would that kind of thing have a snowball's chance in hell.

She fumed for a moment, drumming her fingers, before turning to him. "Did you solve the chicken case?"

"Yep. Miller's still kind of itchy, though."

"Good. Any more news on the Hamlet murder case?"

"Not yet. The director just came in, though." He hitched his chin toward Vick's office. They could see the man talking to the chief, and he was waving his arms around and pacing back and forth in front of her desk. Finally, the Chief got up, pointed to a chair, into which the man sat down, and she opened her door and poked her head out. "Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara? A moment?"

Carlton followed O'Hara into the chief's office and the director peered at him for a moment before stepping back. "Have I seen you before?"

"No."

"I swear…"

"Chief, what did you need?" Carlton asked, directing his gaze at Vick and ignoring the director.

"We have a predicament. Mr Hudson here says that he needs someone to replace Hamlet next Friday night, but none of his current cast is capable to tackling the role on such short notice, and as there is a murder investigation going on, he thinks that someone from the force should be called in to…uh…pinch hit, so to speak."

"I swear I've seen you somewhere," Hudson said, coming around to peer up at Carlton. He was wiry little man who looked like a college professor who had been left in the dryer too long. For his lack of height, however, he had a touch of presence about him. "Where did you attend college?"

"Stanford."

"Oh. Well. If you must attend college in the _West_…" Hudson said, shrugging.

Carlton rolled his eyes. He kept his gaze at middle space and pursed his lips, waiting for his own irritation to fade. O'Hara was a little quicker about settling down and honing in on the business at hand. "So where do we come in on that? Don't you have an understudy?"

"What we need is someone undercover, who has access to every part of the stage," Vick continued.

"Our understudy's wife just had a baby. He's back in Fresno. I want to find out who killed Sir Reginald." Hudson told them.

"Hey, no kidding! We were kind of interested in finding that out, too!" Carlton said, with unveiled sarcasm.

"What I mean is, this reflects badly on us. The theater company, I mean. We've had two other actors killed in the past three years, in a similar fashion."

"Talk about your tough gigs," Carlton said. "And I think for Livingstone, being dead is a considerably bigger disappointment to him than you losing your reputation."

The director glared at him before continuing. "Anyway, it's obvious that the killer is someone in the cast or crew," Hudson told them.

"Why put a cop in the role?" Juliet asked. "We could just cross reference everybody who was present when this murder took place against everybody who was present at the other two. Simple process of elimination, consider motives, opportunities…"

"Because," Hudson said, giving her a condescending look. "We travel with virtually the same cast and crew every season. We travel during the summer, from the end of May to the beginning of September, and the same crew and cast has been with us for years. Unfortunately, I've lost an Iago, a Petruccio and now, a Hamlet. Our lead actors, many of them well-known, are dropping like flies, and I'm fairly certain that some member of our regular cast is a killer."

"Or a member of the crew," Carlton corrected. "Then again, most actors are crazy enough to be killers."

"Detective…" Vick started, giving him a warning look, but he ignored her.

"So the murder victims are more or less guest performers, right? They join up for a bit, and maybe take the role away from a regular who thinks he deserves to step into the limelight, and bada-bing, he's dead?" Carlton said, settling into a chair and gesturing to O'Hara to do the same, as he could tell her stilettos were killing her, along with the headache Spencer had given her.

"I can't believe you just used the term 'bada-bing'," Juliet said, sitting down and crossing her knees.

"I've even used the term 'bada-boom', after watching _GoodFellas_. Listen, Hudson, it's fairly obvious you've got a psycho in your cast. Ever heard of background checks?" Carlton was cracking his fingers, a sign to Juliet that he was uneasy.

"Detective Lassiter, I've yet to come across an actor who didn't have an arrest record or some kind of skeleton in his or her closet," Hudson, looking annoyed.

"One of them has _three_ skeletons in his closet now," Juliet pointed out. "You know, I think the idea of one of our own taking on the role is a good one. Do we have any actors on staff?" she asked, looking at Vick.

"Not that I know of," Vick answered, eyeing Carlton. "Mr Hudson, this has to be hush-hush, if we're going to do an undercover operation. If we're going to have a member of this police force in the play, you'll want to do auditions, right?"

"Yes, of course. He doesn't necessarily have to be _good_. Just adequate - able to remember the lines and not bump into the furniture."

"Wouldn't _delivery_ be kind of important?" Carlton interjected, causing three pairs of eyes to zero in on him. He shrugged. "Hard to do _Hamlet_ without proper delivery." He looked around at everyone and spread his arms. "I'm just _saying_."

"I have seen you somewhere before," Hudson said, giving him a narrow look.

"I seriously doubt it. Have you ever been arrested?"

"Did some stuff back in the seventies that I'm not proud of, but no, I haven't." Hudson turned back to Vick. "If I'm to have a policeman undercover during my production, I must agree with Detective Lassiter here – he should be fairly competent. I think we can run auditions of your staff members tomorrow afternoon."

"Okay, fine," Vick said.

As she spoke, her office door opened and Spencer and Guster came bundling in, the 'psychic' grinning happily. "I see a dead Shakespearean actor. Famous. Award winning. He was…_poisoned_!"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Carlton said. "Visited Woody, huh? You read the toxicology report already?" Carlton asked.

"The murderer was a member of the cast!" Spencer crowed, looking triumphant. No one, however, appeared impressed.

Carlton had had enough. "Spencer! What is eighty-three times sixty-four?"

Spencer, properly distracted, began counting on his fingers. Guster sighed and muttered that he was late for a meeting with his manager, and Juliet just closed her eyes, wishing to God she had some Tylenol.

"Now, while we've got some time, I'll go down and talk with Woody about the report," Carlton said. The director was staring, appalled, at Spencer.

"Who is this idiot?"

"Eh, he's our resident psychic-cum-mathematician," Carlton explained. "But don't worry. He's occupied for now." With that, he turned and headed out towards the morgue.

* * *

><p>Woody was looking at something in a microscope when Carlton walked into the coroner's office, and when the eccentric ME looked up, Carlton yelped and jumped back, completely caught off guard by the black rings around his eyes. "Uh…Woody, are you okay?"<p>

"What? What's wrong?"

"Black…rings…"

"Oh, dear. My techs are in a puckish mood today. Just because of that whole pumpkin incident last night. They wanted to make a pumpkin Marilyn Monroe, see, but none of the melons were the right size, and then there was this horrible _mess_ and I, hardass that I am, made them clean it up_._" He found a washcloth and began cleaning the black powdery substance from his eyes, until he looked somewhat less racoonish. Carlton cleared his throat, hoping this conversation wouldn't wander off into the pansy patch, as usual.

"So what have you got on the murder of Reginald Livingstone?"

Woody picked up the chart. "There were two possible causes of death, I think."

"Two?" Carlton grabbed the chart and perused it, finding 'Cause of Death' and reading it carefully. "Abrin and…ricin?"

"Yes, the same two poisons that killed Georgei Markov. Remember that?"

Carlton closed his eyes for a moment, remembering something he had seen on the History Channel. "Right. They couldn't trace the ricin because of the capsule used. But…neither poison is immediately fatal."

"Right. We don't know yet if Livingstone was exhibiting symptoms, but either one of the poisons take up to three days to kill you without treatment. Of course, his physical condition didn't help much."

"Really?"

Woody led Carlton to the 'meat locker' and they stepped inside, where he opened one of the big drawers and pulled the body of Sir Reginald Livingstone out, removing the sheet. "Livingstone was in terrible shape. He drank too much, ate a lot of greasy foods, never exercised…preliminary exam shows hardening of the arteries, bad ticker, type two diabetes – uncontrolled - the works, and he had a rather…uh…_interesting_ history of VD. He also smoked – lungs were as black as tar."

"He was English, right? The dogs smoke in England. So someone could have been poisoning him for a few days at least without him noticing anything unusual." Carlton studied the famous actor's profile for a moment. He remembered Livingstone, from many years ago, doing _King Lear_ quite well for a PBS production. He hadn't looked so bad then, but nobody really looked very good while _dead_. He looked like Miracle Max's description of 'Extremely Dead', so that his pockets could be searched for loose change. "Then again, he'd have certainly noticed a pretty bad stomachache…"

"Probably just thought it was a gallbladder attack, of which he also had a history" Woody shrugged. "His stomach contents were…well, let's just say he wasn't on a diet, unless it could be called the 'see food and eat it' diet. His last meal was something out of Henry the Eighth's court, to tell you the truth. Roast beef, chicken breast, candied yams, lobster, most of the contents of bottle of champagne, two slices of pumpkin pie…"

"And ricin was the poison in the cup?" Carlton asked.

"Yep, but I'm certain the abrin is what actually killed him. The ricin was a double-whammy. It might have moved things along, anyway. I think that he probably died from abrin poisoning, but the ricin helped kill him – his ill health and bad diet helped the two poisons immensely. Frankly, Detective, he was being chased around by the guy with a scythe for the past couple of years and his habits indicate he didn't take much notice at all." He shook his head. "And you found no prints on the cup?"

Carlton shook his head. "Everybody touched the damned thing. Weird thing is, in the play, Hamlet doesn't drink from the cup at all during the sword fight. Gertrude does, of course, but apparently the actress portraying her didn't drink from that particular cup. The actor portraying Claudius drinks from the cup, too, because Hamlet forces him to. According to the director, Livingstone had the strength to force Claudius to drink from the same cup Gertrude drank from. So obviously the only person to actually drink from the poisoned cup was Livingstone." He looked up at Woody. "This is bizarre…Gertrude and Polonius both drink from the same cup even though it's identical to the other? The only person anybody saw actually drink from that cup was Livingstone."

"He must have drunk from the cup before the scene started," Woody suggested.

"Probably. Must've been thirsty. Diabetes'll do that to you." Carlton's eyes narrowed. "I'll need to interview that woman – the one who portrayed Gertrude, whatever her name was. Plus we'll have to do some legwork and find out if anybody's been buying poison recently and cross-reference back to cast and crew for the production." He rubbed his forehead. "Where does one _buy_ ricin and abrin?"

"Poisons R Us, I assume," Woody said with a grin. Off Carlton's irritated glare, he sobered. "Uh…crones, maybe? Witch doctors? Voodoo pr-…uh…I…I…uh, I don't know, sir. I really don't. I don't generally move around amongst Santa Barbara's _demimonde_."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe, donut-licking notwithstanding," Carlton said, actually grinning before snatching up the coroner's report and leaving.

* * *

><p>Juliet glanced over at her partner as he read through witness statements, fascinated by yet again by all his little quirks.<p>

The tells, for instance, were particularly intriguing. She had heard a rumor, once, from an unreliable source, that Carlton was dyslexic, and even though she knew little about the learning disability, she had to wonder sometimes if those rumors were right. He always wrote in caps, for one thing, and his way of thinking things through were sometimes a little…backwards, yet remarkably insightful. He tended to read rather slowly, she had noted long ago, and sometimes his spelling was a little…_off_.

There were plenty of other things about him that fascinated her. His long fingers were strong and capable, yet remarkably elegant and agile, and his hands were calloused. His crooked nose, angular features and black eyebrows that would lift and furrow depending on his moods, were remarkable to just _watch_, plus that nice firm chin and the hundred whorls and cowlicks in his hair. He was a crack shot, and she knew for a fact that he spoke fluent French (though he would _never_ admit to such a thing). He was an amazing cook, which meant that he had a lot more patience than most people thought – you can't very well rush a soufflé, after all.

If he did have a learning disability, his score on the SBPD detective's exam was doubly astounding. You don't become a detective by being stupid, after all, much less head detective. If he was dyslexic, he had had to overcome quite a lot, and he had done so without ever _admitting_ to such a disability, much less using it as an excuse for any shortcomings. He had passed the exam, after all, on the first try, and was a superb detective, with a far better sense of nuance and body language than he really gave himself credit for. He watched and listened extremely well, and Juliet suspected that his lapses in the past few years were largely due to being impeded and goaded by Shawn.

He was very proud, without being narcissistic. Arrogant, albeit usually rightfully so, without being conceited. Difficult, cranky, stubborn, hard-headed, but _never_ hard-hearted. She knew he had a soft spot for children, and that for all his awkwardness and lack of good social skills, he could actually be rather nice when called upon – even rather polite. He could even show genuine sympathy to victims of crimes, and he obviously took his job of protecting the people of Santa Barbara very, very seriously. Sure, he tended to say the wrong thing a lot, but then again he was getting rather good at editing his comments. He was even getting along with Shawn a lot more lately. Or, at least, he was carrying around candy bars to distract him.

Of course, Carlton was also a very attractive man. She glanced over at him again, watching as he absently scratched the back of his neck as he read. Leaning back, she saw that he had left the department website and was reading an article at a website about Shakespeare's plays, and just like always, when he came across something that peaked his interest, his eyes would soften a little from their almost cerulean blue to…_blue_. She liked to call it 'incrediblue' – it was an indescribable, heart-stopping shade of blue that frequently made her need to stop and catch her breath. Add that to his silver-threaded dark hair and fair, Irish skin and those lean but strong muscles…well, he was a lot better looking than he seemed to believe or really even think about.

And those wide shoulders and chest, and those muscled arms and his narrow hips…well. Yum. She knew he was strong as a bull, in spite of his lean frame, and she had seen him punch a good-sized man across a room once after that man had had the gall to strike _her_.

The idea that some day, some woman would finally take notice of him and snatch him up filled her with dread. How would she handle that? It was inevitable, after all, and he certainly didn't deserve to be alone, and he sure didn't do well on his own. He needed somebody to take care of him, and she knew for a fact that he would relish taking care of someone, too. He was a guy who liked to protect people, and even if he was a little OCD about that and would probably be overprotective of his mate, she would appreciate his sincerity about it if she had even half a brain, and would be wise to enjoy being protected and cared for so well.

She knew he was extremely protective of her, and Shawn had told her about the lie detector test of a few months ago. That had initially annoyed her, but her annoyance had faded into finding the whole notion rather…sweet. She knew Carlton was able to be extremely sweet and even rather gentle, but only if nobody was watching. He had the biggest heart she had ever come across, and also made the biggest effort to hide it.

She was still watching him when his phone rang and he snatched it up. "Lassiter. What? Oh? How interesting. Thanks, Woody." He hung up and looked at her, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. "You won't believe this."

"Frogs have sprouted wings and are dive-bombing Calaveras County?"

"Eh?"

She grinned. "What?"

"Woody has found that most of Livingstone's organs were shutting down. He was being actively _poisoned_, for at least three days prior to his death."

"Oh. Wow. So the abrin was what killed him?"

"Yep. But somebody put ricin in the cup – we just don't know if it was the same person. It was tea, by the way. Decaf tea. We just have to figure out how and where the poisons were obtained, and that will probably lead us to the killer and or killers." He grabbed up his coat and keys. "Want to come watch the auditions?"

"Sure!"

"Oh…wait…I forgot something." He got up and went to Vick's office, and found Shawn still sitting there – the chief had apparently left. "Hey, pencils down, Spencer."

"What? Wait…I could have used a pencil?"

"It's five-thousand three-hundred twelve, by the way," Carlton told him kindly as they left Vick's office. He looked at his watch. "I hear they're making sopapillas right now up at Carmelita's. We're heading out to the theater to watch the auditions." He looked at Juliet. "Vick rounded up six guys from the station to have a go at Hamlet. Needless to say, this could be more entertaining than a frog-jumping contest."

Shawn looked around, startled to see that his friend was gone. "Really? Where's Gus?"

"He had to go to work. You know, his actual _job_? See ya 'round." Carlton put his jacket on and went out, Juliet at his heels and Shawn bringing up the rear. When he saw his girlfriend and her partner get into the Vic and drive away, however, Spencer decided sopapillas could wait. The auditions sounded much more interesting.

Maybe he would audition, too. He had some acting experience after all. Grinning, Shawn got on his bike and headed out of the parking lot and toward the playhouse.

This was going to be fun!


	3. Thespianistics

I just couldn't resist having Shawn do this. The guy is smart and perceptive, but an actor he's not. Just too ADD, and besides, all of Shakespeare's plays were written well before 1980. I can, however, picture Carlton doing Hamlet. He's got that element of surprise, IMO.

* * *

><p>"Spencer, what in all unholy <em>hell<em> are you doing here?"

Shawn grinned at Lassiter, who was standing at the end of the aisle nearest the stairs leading up to the stage, and the detective didn't look terribly pleased. In fact, his expression was somewhere between 'bear awakened from a peaceful nap' and 'Attila the Hun after losing a game of Go Fish'. Shawn noted the extremely annoyed look on the tall detective's face, recognized the real danger that lay behind it, and wisely kept out of immediate reach.

Juliet, meanwhile, had taken a seat in the front row and was downing a pair of Tylenol pills by way of a bottle of Diet Coke. She offered her boyfriend no greeting at all, and only winced when she opened her eyes a little. She took another swig of her drink, opened her eyes for a moment, and actually whimpered, which made Carlton look at her, alarmed. All he had left was Aleve and sugar free gum now. A run to Walgreen's had been put off because he had wanted to get to the theater on time for the auditions, and now he felt like a total heel.

"I'm here to audition, of course," Shawn said, drawing Carlton's attention back to him. "Prepare yourself for thespianism heretofore unseen in the annals of…uh…thespianistics."

"Do you even know what the word 'thespian' means?" Carlton asked, glancing back at his partner, who was rubbing her temples and blinking miserably against the lights. He sighed and turned back to Spencer.

"Uh…well, I didn't consult a dictionary, but I think it has something to do with monkeys. In tutus."

Carlton immediately felt a headache coming on that was at least marginally on par with his partner's. He gave up on Spencer and took a seat next to her, digging in his pockets until he found some chocolate mints. He couldn't eat them – he would swell up like a balloon and start seeing faces in the wallpaper – but he knew mints seemed to soothe Juliet pretty well. He handed her one, barely heard her murmured thanks, and settled back in his seat, looking forward to the show all the same.

Shawn darted up the stairs and joined a small clutch of cops that were known to do community theater on their off hours. Including, Carlton was amazed to see, Miller _and_ Dobson.

"Geesh," he muttered. "You hang out with a couple of guys, drinking beer and avoiding board games with their wives, and they don't bother to tell you they do some acting on the side?" It was particularly startling to see Dobson up there – the guy only ever watched Dirty Harry movies and thought Gwenyth Paltrow was a skin ailment. Which actually sounded about right, come to think of it.

The director, the producer for _Hamlet_'s go-round for the season, and a small band of other crew members came tromping down the stairs and to the front row, where they took seats and began scribbling away on their respective clipboards, the director looking a little irritated and more than a little harried. "All right," he yelled to the men on the stage. "Let's get on with this fresh bit of hell, shall we? This is a closed audition, so the doors are locked and nobody knows this is going on. First up – Detective Rick Dobson."

Dobson stepped forward and launched into Hamlet's famous soliloquy. He wasn't bad, actually, but the director seemed to find his performance somewhat lacking. "All right, that's enough!" he yelled.

"Hey, I've waited my whole life to play this role!" Dobson said, looking disgruntled.

"Long wait. Next!"

Miller stepped forward, looked out into the mostly empty seats of the auditorium, and froze. Carlton leaned forward, trying to _will_ the poor man to start talking, but after a few agonizing moments, he never made a sound. Finally, Dobson grabbed him and pulled him back. "He's better at musicals. You should see his Munkustrap. He gets stage fright, that's all, but he gets over it pretty fast…don't you? Jimmy?" He snapped his fingers in front of Miller's face a few times, but got no response. "If you'd just take off all your clothes, he might be able to handle it."

"Handle_ what_?" the director asked icily. "This isn't a production of _Hair_, Detective. Thank you, Detective Miller." He scratched another name off his list. "Next!"

Two more SBPD officers made a brave go of it. One, Czarkovsky, wasn't bad, but he had a slight lisp that was off-putting and not in keeping with the eloquent if indecisive Prince of Denmark. The other did okay but didn't have the whole speech memorized and got lost shortly after 'contumely' and finally just shrugged and slunk away, knowing he was beaten.

"Next!" Hudson yelled, rubbing his forehead, and Shawn stepped out, carrying one of the skulls from backstage and wearing one of those ridiculous Elizabethan neck ruffled collars. Carlton put his hand over his eyes, fighting laughter but losing. He settled back in the chair, watching this with undisguised glee.

Shawn held up the skull and launched into the graveside speech, twisting his head from side to side due to the uncomfortable collar.

"Alas! Poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio! A fellow of infinite jest! Of most excellent fancy! He hath borne me on his back a thousand times, and now…how abhorred in my imagination….uh…it is! My gorge rises at…er…it…" He sputtered for a moment, then continued, still yelling at the top of his lungs. "Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft…" Spencer's brow furrowed and he peered down at the palm of his hand. "Really? Raise your hand if 'ew'." He looked at his palm again. "Uh…right…where be your gibes now? Your gambling…your…gambling? He gambled? On what? Did he made book for the King." He looked up again, and saw several faces starting up at him, all wearing various expressions of dismay, disgust or outright rage. "Uh…your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?" He looked bewildered. "A roar of what?"

"Cut!" Hudson yelled, wild-eyed. "Stop! Stop right now before I have to tear out my _eyes_! And why are you _yelling_, you addlepatted boob?"

"Hey, give him some credit," said Carlton with a smirk. "It wasn't too long ago he would have just tried to _eat_ the script."

Shawn looked up, startled, from peering at his palm and stared down at Hudson, who was cradling his head in his hands.

"What's wrong…and by the way, you're yelling, too! Want me try it another way?"

"What the hell was that?" Hudson screamed. "Tell me what that was! And then never do it again!"

"It was…well, it was Hamlet's speech about…Yorick and…"

"I could have sworn it was a seizure!" Hudson shrieked at him. "My God! My dear God in heaven, save us from this…this…_travesty_!"

"Well…like I said, I could do it another way…"

"Do it another way and we'll all _die_! Listen to me, Mr Spencer. Listen carefully, and I'll try and use small words so you can understand! Hamlet is a _dignified_ man who is feigning madness because his father was _murdered_ by his own uncle, who married his _mother_! It is a story about murder, revenge, thwarted desires and a man in deep, gut-wrenching conflict between his conscience and his need for vengeance! Hamlet is _not_ a moron reading his lines from his _palm_!"

Shawn looked affronted then. "Well, excuse me!"

"Believe me, Mr Spencer, there is no excuse for you! Let me ask you…have you ever been thrown from a cliff?"

Shawn looked even more confused. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm fairly certain that if anyone ever did throw you from a cliff, you would have great difficulty conveying the concept of_ falling_!" Hudson shouted, fists banging against the armrests of his seat. The producer and other crew members looked appalled, and one got out a prescription bottle and gave Hudson a pill, which he dry-swallowed and began rubbing his eyes.

Shawn glared down at Hudson, thoroughly insulted now, and then glanced over at Lassiter, who had his hand over his eyes and was shaking, containing his laughter quite well.

Hudson glowered up at Spencer. "Mr Spencer, I will attempt to be kind here. I will try. Really, I will. I could hire you to portray that decorative fichus in the corner, although I suspect that you could only do that with extensive coaching."

Shawn huffed. "All right. Fine. But I'd like to see Lassie over there do any better."

Everybody turned to look at the detective, and Carlton's laughter was replaced immediately by a cold glare up at Spencer. Juliet, her head still hurting but still able to grasp what was happening around her, glanced at her partner and started to say something, but he was already on his feet, removing his jacket and stalking up the steps, his badge on his belt, gun in his holster. He stepped onto the stage and the other cops moved away as one frightened body, startled but knowing better than to say anything when he looked that lethal.

He glowered at Spencer, who took a step back before the detective snatched the skull from his hand and tossed it to Miller, who had recovered his senses by then. "On cue, please toss me the damned skull."

Spencer moved off the stage, looking smug, and Carlton glared out at the audience for a second, eyes narrowing slightly at Hudson's surprised expression. When everybody was satisfactorily silent, he nodded.

"Let me see." Carlton snapped his fingers at Miller, who dumbly threw him the skull, which he caught with his right hand and switched it to his left. He held it up a little, studying its macabre grin for a moment and taking a steadying breath. "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times, and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chapfallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come. Make her laugh at _that_." He tossed the skull back to Miller, stalked back off the stage and returned to his seat.

Everyone was silent. Juliet, eyes wide, stared at her partner, too stunned to speak. He crossed his arms and watched as a rather deflated Spencer stomped down from the stage and took a seat at the end of the row, muttering under his breath. He tore off the collar and threw it at the stage, where it lay abandoned and forgotten against the wall.

Hudson leaned forward and looked at Carlton. "Detective Lassiter, could you…please go back up there and do the soliloquy?"

"Nope."

Juliet jabbed Carlton in the ribs with her elbow. "Go, Carlton, or I will shoot you!"

"I don't want to. I was just making a point to that little twerp. That's all."

"I don't care. Get up there!"

"No!"

Chief Vick, having come in quietly during Carlton's brief performance, spoke up from behind Hudson. "Okay, I will _order_ you to get up there and do the soliloquy, Detective."

"Isn't doing a soliloquy something you can get arrested for in parts of Tennessee?" Shawn interjected. "I mean, who's going to defend the poor soliloquy? Don't soliloquies have rights? Poor little furry soliloquies…"

Hudson turned and glared at Shawn. "Mr Spencer, you are not permitted to speak again in my presence, am I understood? Your voice alone could make the boards sick!"

Shawn mumbled something under his breath but otherwise held his tongue. Carlton, getting up again and standing for a moment, hands on his hips, began to entreaty his commanding officer against having to do as she ordered. However, she gave him a narrow look and he finally huffed and stomped back up onto the stage. He struck no particular pose – just stood calmly at center stage, hands on his hips, and let fly.

"To be, or not to be - that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep no more. And by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause. There's the respect that makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time. Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of th' unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought and enterprise of great pitch and moment. With this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action. Soft you now, the fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons, be all my sins remembered."

The entire auditorium was silent, with everyone except Carlton holding their breath. Juliet leaned forward, mesmerized.

God help her, but he was _spectacular_.

Hudson made everybody – except Carlton, who remained still and calm - jump by suddenly yelling, "Caroline! Get your ass out here now!"

Caroline Watson stalked out on the stage, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read 'So Many Men, So Little Time' and raised her eyebrows when she saw Carlton standing there looking rather annoyed. She rattled out her line, and she and the head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department continued the scene. When it ended, with Ophelia shattered by Hamlet's harsh words, Hudson put down his clipboard and clapped. "Detective, that was magnificent...and now I _know_ I've seen you somewhere before." He turned to look at Vick, who was still staring, wide-eyed, at Carlton. "Ms Vick, I believe we have our Hamlet!"

* * *

><p>"I don't want to do it!"<p>

Juliet and Vick stared at Carlton, bewildered. He was balking like a bad-tempered horse, which had both women completely flummoxed, since they both knew he normally enjoyed the spotlight.

Juliet also knew her partner was an excellent detective, but she had had no idea he was also a superb _actor_. He had snatched Hamlet up by the balls and had made the character his own, and effortlessly. Not only that, he clearly had every word of the play memorized, along with stage direction. Yet here he was, stubbornly denying that he could do it, and utterly unwilling to try. Hudson had been bereft when Carlton had steadfastly refused to take the role and now, he continued to dig in his heels and kick at the proverbial goads.

"Detective, you have been _ordered_ to do this play!" Vick snapped at him. "So you will, and there's an end to it. So put on your big boy boxers and deal!"

They stood in Vick's office, after hours, and Carlton had his hands on his hips again, exuding stubborn, angry calm. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were blazing like gas burners on a stove, and he looked so delicious Juliet had to fight back a purely animalistic urge to tear his shirt off and kiss him all over.

Dear God, what was happening to her? She rubbed her forehead, and caught Vick's curious look.

She swallowed, pulling herself together, and moved into her partner's line of vision. "Carlton, you can and you will do this! For God's sake…come on!"

"No!" Carlton snapped, and she could almost see his neck stiffening. "Absolutely not. I will not do it!"

"Carlton!" Vick shouted. "This is ridiculous!"

"You know I'm crap at undercover work…" he tried, adding a slightly wheedling edge to his voice. "I don't want to do this. Get somebody else. Let Spencer do it. The first ever accidentally comic version of _Hamlet_…it'll be a smash hit! They could take it on the road. Show people how _Hamlet _should never, for the love of God, be done."

"Detective, you have been ordered to take this role. That's it. No arguing. You will go to rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. Understood? Good. I've had enough of this day. If anybody needs me tomorrow, I will be in here at my desk, playing with a loaded revolver."

Vick snatched up her coat, her purse and her keys and stomped out, slamming her door behind her, leaving a grouchy detective-cum-actor and his partner both looking stunned. He sat down, huffing and running his hands through his hair. She sat down, too, and watched him undo the top button of his collar. Good Lord, those hands…

_Stop thinking about his hands!_

"I hate this," he finally said.

"Why? You were great," she said, knowing she sounded a little wobbly. _Buck up! Pull yourself together! _God, all she needed now was a psychiatrist's office and this conversation would be complete in its getting-too-close-to-the-real-problem terrifyingness.

"I did some acting, in college," he said, shrugging. "Won a few…awards. You know – scholarship and stupid medals and weird-looking little statues of guys staring into mirrors and the like, and was on the verge of deciding to just scrap law enforcement entirely and go for acting full time, but then my mother came sweeping in during rehearsal for _The Producers_ and that was the end of that."

"_The Producers_?" Juliet was even more stunned now.

"Yeah. I was Bloom. You know…'_I want to be a producer_…'" he sang. "It was, needless to say, a nightmare. Mother, that is, not the play. I was pretty good. The rehearsals were going well, but it was either be cut off entirely and do what I wanted to do or do what I was _supposed_ to do and actually eat a meal or two every day."

"So you gave up acting? Just like that." She snapped her fingers.

He shrugged. "Hey, at least I didn't do what that kid in _Dead Poet's Society_ did. I didn't off myself…obviously. I had to be practical. I was barely twenty, I was working two jobs already to just make ends meet, and…well, I did what I was born to do instead of what I wanted to do and became a cop. I love being a cop. Always did." He tugged fitfully at his tie and sighed, sitting back and stretching out his legs, rubbing his jaw. "Listen, I was already trying to survive on Ramen noodles and milkless macaroni and cheese...and Spam. Stuff Posing As Meat." He shuddered. "I already knew what starvation felt like. I'm Irish, yes, but I was losing weight I couldn't afford to lose, however much I enjoyed acting. Something had to give - I could be an actor and starve to death, or I could be a...civil servant, making a crappy salary while also being shot at."

"But you loved acting, too, didn't you?" she asked gently. "Hey, it's okay," she said, holding up her hands at his sharp look. "I won't tell anybody."

"Playbills don't pay bills, O'Hara."

"Carlton…"

"And it wasn't really that hard, giving up acting. I haven't done any acting at all since then. I did _Hamlet_ for the first time when I was eighteen. Freshman at Stanford, and somebody just suggested I try out during an open audition, and I got the part." He shrugged again. "Then I did the Scottish play, but there was this famous English actor in the role – of a _Scottish_ king, by the way – and I was relegated to just being the doctor, because he wouldn't have an Irishman in any major role. The guy was a total racist. Hated Irish people, and treated me like crap, so that by the time the scene came along where the Queen dies, the King asks the doctor, 'How fares the Queen?" and I said, 'Aye, she's fine. She'll be up and about in an hour or so, Yer Majesty' and walked off." Juliet grinned as he affected a perfect Scottish burr. "Ended the scene on a high note that night, lemme tell ya. Aside from the reviews, it was a smash hit."

She was giggling by then, her headache gone. "All right – recite something from McB-…"

He covered her mouth with his hand. "We never say the name of that play, O'Hara. You of all people should know that. And Shakespeare isn't a parlor trick that you call up just for its own sake."

The sensation of his hand on her mouth was making her heart start beating a little too fast. He had never once touched her mouth before, and it was totally unexpected and scary and wonderful and all kinds of other words that she couldn't put together coherently because his eyes had locked with hers now. They were the color of the Caribbean now, and so clear and beautiful she had to take a deep breath and memorize it for later tonight, when she was alone. He moved his hand away and made a careful study of his feet for a moment, and she saw that the tops of his ears were a little reddish.

"We?" she finally said, gathering her scattered thoughts together.

"Well…uh…it's bad luck. Actors…actors don't say the name of that play. We don't accept roses from women named Rose, either."

"Oh, well, then that's good. It's safe for you to receive roses from, say, somebody named Juliet. Or Ethel."

"If Ethel sends me roses, I'll be a lot more scared about that than saying the name of the Scottish play." He got up. "Well, I had better go get ready for tomorrow. I'll need to look and feel my very best, so I guess I'll go get good and drunk tonight." He stretched a little, rubbing aching muscles. "I didn't just do Shakespeare, of course. Did _The Rainmaker_ and _Cat On a Hot Tin Roof_ and some other stuff."

"Were you Starbuck?"

"Yup."

"Wow. That's a pretty meaty role. Lots of grandstanding and yelling."

"Yeah. Well, I was young." He grinned at her. "I'm not as good as I once was, but now, I'm about as good as I'll ever be. I was amongst the young lions back then, O'Hara. You can't help but do a little roaring yourself."

"Did you do _Romeo and Juliet_?" she asked, unable to conceal a smile.

"Yeah. I was Thibault, and then later I was Mercutio."

"Not Romeo?"

He actually laughed. "Oh, please. Can you really picture me as Romeo?"

She thought about it. "Well, Romeo was a bit…callow, as I recall, so maybe not."

He shrugged. "Callow…and not to mention dead."

"So was Thibault!" she said, jabbing him in the chest, and he caught her hand, and her palm opened, pressing firmly, feeling his warm skin under his crisp shirt. The thought of finding out if his chest hair was soft entered her mind and she swallowed. _Get a hold of yourself!_

"Don't do that," he said, his voice rough. He let go of her hand, and Juliet stepped back, feeling her cheeks warming. "Uh…good night." He put a tiny apology into his voice, and she nodded.

"Don't get drunk," she finally said, adding a gentle plea to her own voice. "Just…go home and go to sleep."

"Okay. Fine. I won't get drunk. Only 'cause you asked nicely."

"Sleep, perchance to dream…right?" she smiled, hoping to God that he didn't notice that she was turning into a squealing, helpless puddle of hormones.

"Yeah." Carlton picked up his jacket and opened the door.

"_'Then I shall say goodnight, until it be morrow_'," Juliet said, bobbing a little curtsy to him. "It was ironic - I was Juliet in a high school production of _Romeo & Juliet_. I was horrible, but it was fun."

He gave her own of his patented grins and actually bowed slightly. "You get some sleep too – you were the one with the headache today, after all." He left the office, leaving the door open, and she watched him as he walked out of the station, and sat down when she heard the doors close. She sighed and dropped her head into her hands.

"And oh, what dreams may come," she whispered. She was honest enough with herself to admit that she couldn't wait to go to sleep tonight.


	4. Idols

It's taken _five_ different attempts to get this to gel. Strange that this part was so hard to get written.

* * *

><p>God played dirty pool.<p>

Carlton had known that since early childhood, when he had figured out that things weren't going to get any better. In his later years, after catechism and First Communion and the nuns tying his left arm behind his back to prevent him from writing with it – and causing him to develop a stutter, ala King George VI, that had taken a lot of work to get rid of – he had decided that while he did in fact believe _in_ God, he didn't really _believe_ Him.

There was no good in the world. There was none righteous, no not one (even Jesus, for all His love of mankind and willingness to get Himself bumped off for the whole rotten lot of humanity, had recognized that fact), least of all Carlton Lassiter, who kept wanting the impossible while knowing it was impossible and finding it impossible to put it all behind him and tell the impossible to shut the hell up, if possible.

He knew that Juliet was taken. Even if she was taken by a liar, a con artist and a pronoid narcissist who could never _possibly_ deserve her, she was taken, and however cynical and cold-hearted he knew he was, or could be, he never went out to steal another man's woman. He had never stolen anything in his life, after all, and wasn't about to start.

But last night, she had looked – if only in his own imagination – like she wouldn't exactly mind being stolen. She had trembled when he'd touched her mouth, and as God was his witness, she had stared at him with those beautiful blue eyes and seemed to be putting out all the signals he frequently dreamed of seeing and _taking advantage of_ because for God's sake, he was human. People might say he was a relentless, unfeeling robot, but they only said that because he didn't let them see otherwise. Problem was that he felt quite a lot, and as a result had to take a lot of cold showers and drink a lot more than was healthy and be even grouchier and colder just to get through each day without losing his mind entirely.

Growling at himself for hoping for something so utterly ridiculous, he continued through the frozen foods aisle, glancing warily into the bins at turkeys that could easily conquer Tokyo and chicken breasts that Pamela Anderson would envy. He turned a corner and headed down to the seafood section, observing the lobsters for a moment and thinking about cockroaches before finally stopping to pick up some packages of sea bream and Ahi tuna. He made a brave foray into the fruit and vegetable section of the store after that, bracing himself for his usual obstacles: women asking him how to handle fruit correctly. It had been happening a lot lately, and he still couldn't figure it out. What was so hard about handling fruit?

He was contemplating red grapes when he glanced up and saw Caroline Watson – Ophelia, formerly Sara Payton on _Galaxerotica_, as he recalled – fondling a cantaloupe. He paused, not sure what etiquette to use ("UCSB has a class on fruit-handing. See if you can enroll." "No, I have an unconquerable fear of handling fruit. It goes back to my childhood, when a giant grape fell on me during the Rose Parade." "Thanks, but I once got thrown out of a Piggly-Wiggly in Charleston for handling the fruit a little too _fondly_…"). She was aware that he was undercover, but she also wasn't that good an actress. If anyone saw them together, and recognized him, his cover could be blown.

She looked up and immediately brightened. "Detect…I mean, Mr Laughton!"

He had been given the name Tom Laughton by Hudson. Apparently Tom Laughton was an unknown actor, from Denver, and had come to take over for Sir Reginald on short notice. Apparently, Tom Laughton was a life-long bachelor, had two cats and did a lot of musical theater. Thus the bachelorhood, Carlton thought as he nodded politely to Caroline, who pushed her cart over and smiled at him, Tom Laughton, Shakespearean actor of the Rockies.

"Miss…Ms Watson," he said, grabbing an unsuspecting apple and examining it critically before putting it back, having noticed a bruise.

She was sans all the heavy makeup required for the theater – he was going to have to talk to Hudson about _that_ – and actually looked relatively normal. Strawberry blonde hair, blue-green eyes, nice figure, good legs, and she actually seemed rather friendly offstage. Which, in and of itself, was rather frightening.

"We don't come to Santa Barbara much – only once or twice per year, depending on our schedule. I like this store a lot, though. The prices are reasonable, and when you're on a budget…well…" She picked up another cantaloupe and studied it. "How can you tell if one of these things is ripe?" she asked.

"Press into the top. If it gives a little, it's ripe," he told her, deciding to just be polite. Be too rude to fellow cast members, and backstage could end up feeling like an afternoon with the Gambinos. Or, considering the circumstances, the Borgias.

"Mm," she nodded, and began pressing into the top of the melon with her thumbs. "I'll bet you've squeezed a lot of melons in your day, haven't you?"

"My fair share," he shrugged. He wasn't stupid. He knew what she meant. Or did he? He eyed her warily - he wasn't exactly good at reading women – he had misread them more often than not, and humiliatingly so. He went back to studying the apples. Fuji, Granny Smith, Red Delicious…Jonagold! He loved Jonagolds. He was thinking of baking an apple pie, just for the hell of it, and began looking for something properly tart for the experiment. Jonagolds weren't terribly tart, but were instead nicely sweet and required considerable strength and patience to cut up properly for a pie, but the end result could be pretty damned good…

"Are you married?"

"Eh?" He looked at her, startled.

"Married?" she repeated.

"No." Good _God_. The Creator of the universe – who had a great sense of humor, thus lonely Irish cops and narcissistic faux psychics - had progressed from dirty pool to dirty _dodgeball_ now.

"Kids?"

"No."

She continued to study him, and he shifted, feeling uncomfortable. Good Lord, was she checking out his chest hair? He fumbled nervously to redo the top button. He didn't know what signals to give off that read 'Not interested' without being downright rude. It wasn't as though he could pull his Glock out and wing her if she suddenly attacked him.

"I guess I'll see you at rehearsal this afternoon?" she said, moving a little closer. He could smell her perfume. It was too heavy for his taste. He liked lighter perfume, with a touch of the scent of peaches added.

"Right."

"You were superb last night, I must say," she said. "Reggie was good, but…eh…he was pedestrian at best, usually. The past three or four days before he died, he was looking particularly bad, and kept forgetting his lines, which he didn't do even when knee-walking, toilet-hugging drunk." She smiled up at him. "I must say, you looked pretty good up there on stage, too. A natural."

"Uh…thanks…so you say Sir Reginald was showing signs of getting really sick?" He picked up four big Jonagolds and put them in a bag, spinning it closed and tying it up before dropping them into the scales. He tapped in the number and got the pricetag, slapping it onto the bag. Five-fifty-five for four apples? He glanced at the sign – no, they were not the Golden Apples of the Hesperides.

"We figured he was just drinking more than usual. He drank a _lot_." She put a melon into her cart and began studying the grapes. "We had learned, of course, to just leave him alone. Anybody that tried to tell him to cut back on the whiskey got ripped to shreds." She shrugged delicately. "He was, as I said the other day, a real bastard. We all hated him."

"Anybody hate him more than everybody else?" he asked casually, mentally scanning his notes on the murder. He knew Spencer had a photographic memory, but it wasn't as well-_trained_ as his own (when had Spencer ever trained for anything?), and he had honed it down to a freaking science over the years.

If he wanted to remember something, he could haul it out whenever he liked. Or, sometimes, his memory would bring up something inconvenient to the situation at hand, like the scent of peaches or light, softly sweet perfume and a shade of blue he still couldn't quite define with an actual word. One day he would have to haul out that old Gaelic dictionary his grandmother had given him – Ireland had a thousand shades of green, but what about shades of _blue_?

He had interviewed all members of the cast that had been present when Sir Reginald had died. Caroline Watson had been in the wings, watching the final scene, and the other cast members on stage had all been cleared of suspicion. George Pons, who portrayed Laertes, had been off the stage and in his dressing room getting ready for a date that night when Sir Reginald was determined to be dead, and come to think of it, Pons had said he was already out of the theater by the time O'Hara had arrived. He had, however, been very cooperative and she had scratched his name off the list of suspects. Now, Carlton was putting a question mark by that name.

"Not that I know of," she answered. "Hey, we're having kind of a party after rehearsal this evening. Maybe you'll come."

"I'll pass, thanks."

She studied him for a moment before finally nodding and walking away, heading toward the dessert aisle, hips swaying (he could almost hear the 'bomp-bump-a-bomp'). He stayed put and studied the oranges for a moment before heading to the checkout. His cell phone started ringing as he was unloading his cart, the girl at the register looking up at him when the theme to _Cops_ started playing. Grumbling again, he snapped "Lassiter" at his caller and watched as a portion of his checking account went to the grocery store.

"Carlton, this is Juliet. Where are you?"

"The grocery store, losing hard-earned money."

"Oh. Well. Can I meet you at your house?"

He looked at his watch. He had to be at rehearsal at two. "Uh…sure."

"What are you making for lunch?"

That was a strange question. "I dunno." He watched as the girl swept a package of thin-sliced Black Forest ham across the scanner. "Ham and cheese sandwiches, I guess. I wasn't…"

"That'll be fine. I'll be there in an hour." She hung up. He stared at the cell phone for a moment, bewildered, and looked at the girl.

"That'll be eighty-four sixty-five," she said, smiling pleasantly. "You have really pretty eyes, sir."

"Right." He pulled out his checkbook. "What?"

* * *

><p>They discussed ricin and abrin between bites of Black Forest ham and cheese sandwiches – his with honey mustard, hers with mayo – and debated who could obtain the two poisons, and how. Neither of them could really get a good handle on where, though, which would be a pretty good lead. She promised to make a few calls while he was at rehearsal, and he caught her little smile.<p>

"Okay, out with it. What's so damned amusing?" he asked, clearing away the paper plates.

"I just never would have thought…"

"What? It's that surprising that I can…act?" He couldn't help feeling a little defensive. The girl in the checkout line had left him discombobulated. Then the woman behind him in the line had chimed in with another compliment about his eyes and he had almost forgotten to sign his name to the check and then when he had gotten into the parking lot, he couldn't remember where he had parked his damned car. Yeah, great memory for some things, definitely, but he was apparently forgetting how to avoid losing his mind.

"No, that's not surprising. Well…a little. But then again, you do have that element of surprise about you. Frankly, I'd be more surprised if you _couldn't_ act, since you're so good at hiding what you're thinking and feeling. It's just that you were refusing to be in the spotlight last night, Carlton," she pointed out. "I know you. You love the limelight."

"And the nightlife. I like to boogie," he deadpanned.

"No you don't!" she laughed, and his heart skipped a beat. He relished every time he could make her laugh. It was a sound he could store away in his head for moments when he felt the most rotten.

"That's true. I don't." He settled back in his chair, crossing his knees, heart still banging around in his ribcage. "I just…well, hell, if people find out I act, or did act, they'll be on me like a monkey on a cupcake, you know? Most people already think I'm crazy or not quite _right_. You know – teched in the 'ead, like. Being an actor just puts the final nail in the old Lassiter coffin of the perpetually strange. Give me a few years and I'll give up and start hanging out with Woody."

"Oh, come on!" she said, punching him in the arm. "Nobody thinks you're crazy."

"Creepy, then. Paranoid."

"That's because they don't bother to get to know you." She shrugged and ate a potato chip. "Or maybe they're not brave enough. Anyway, I know you're not crazy. I know you're not…_that_…paranoid." At his expression, she shook her head. "You just think that the world is against you. Only these days, you don't think the _entire_ world is against you. And when you were up there, you were completely at ease. Very, very confident. You were born for the stage, weren't you? Admit it. You're an _actor_."

He snorted and took a drink of his iced tea. "I was born to be a cop. Acting was just…a…a blip. Something to do, to decompress, or something. I was already graying at eighteen. Not a lot, but it was disturbing to find gray hairs and I was already antisocial. Trying out for _Hamlet_ was a lot like British food – a dare. Except that unlike British food, it never did make me nauseated."

"But you got the part. And awards and some scholarships…"

"Eh…" He shrugged. "Okay, I admit it, O'Hara. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed stepping outside myself, getting away from…from _me_ for a bit." He swallowed when he saw her expression.

"What was so awful about you?"

"Please. You've known me for almost seven years, O'Hara. What's not awful about me?"

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Putting yourself down. You're a pretty nice guy when you give yourself a chance, and particularly when nobody's looking, and just in case you didn't know, I have always been looking. Like…how you are with crime victims, and with children in particular."

"I hate children."

She laughed again, shaking her head. "No you don't. I saw you with that little boy a few weeks ago – the one we found wandering around by himself, lost and crying his poor little heart out…? You were very kind to him. In fact, you were sweet. You dug around in your desk and found that yo-yo and taught him how to walk the dog."

"It's the only yo-yo trick I know. I try anything else, I end up beaning somebody upside the head, which is why I had the damned thing in the first place – Spencer had brought it into the station one day and knocked Dobson's lights out. Poor guy kept asking me if I had seen his little dog. I had confiscated it, as a deadly weapon." He brushed salt off his hands and looked around his back porch, where they were seated at his wrought-iron patio table, the umbrella blocking the sun. The backyard needed mowing, but the hydrangea bushes that lined his property were in full, delirious bloom, and he studied them for a moment, comparing their rich blue to the color of her eyes.

"But you were still very kind to him. He was crying, and you distracted him, got him to calm down, and then you tracked down his mom and you were even nice to her, though I know you wanted to tear her to shreds for losing track of him."

"He wandered out of a grocery store. She had five other kids with her, all under age ten. It must have been like trying to herd cats. Not that losing track of her kid is an excuse, but it was a reason, and it all turned out okay…" He scratched the back of his head.

She laughed, tipped her head back and making him need to cross his knees, to cover his reaction to the sight of that smooth, silky skin on her neck. "So that's why you didn't yell at her?"

"She was already yelling at herself," he shrugged.

"Well, see, that's it right there. You're like a coconut, really. All hard on the outside, but once the shell finally gets cracked, you're all sweet inside."

He felt his cheeks warming. He struggled to get his brain working properly, and the best thing for that was to talk shop. "Hey, listen…what have you found out about the…uh…poisons? The…the ones that killed Sir Reginald whatisname."

"Livingstone."

He wagged his index finger at her. "That's him."

"Ricin is made from castor bean plants, ancin is made from rosary peas, or…" She dug in her purse and extracted a sheaf of papers. "Lucky beans!"

"Hm. Lemme see." He took the papers from her and read its opening notes. "Woody wrote this!"

"Yes."

"I recognized the drawings of fairies and…is that a Grim Reaper? Anyway…" He took a sip of his iced tea. "Castor beans…who would have castor beans and…rosary peas…?"

"I haven't a clue."

"Yeah. I lost my rosary _beads_ years ago. I think they might be in a can of peanut brittle, actually." He rested his chin on the heel of his palm and read over the paper. It was pretty in-depth, even for Woody, but then again, the weirdo was pretty intelligent when he put aside his worries about Colombians with hooks. "Both drugs kill mice in droves. Then again, so does the music of Barry Manilow and the early speeches of Al Gore. The current speeches don't so much kill the mice as make them suicidal."

She giggled, putting her head down and covering her mouth with her hand.

"Anyway, both are extremely lethal, and if anybody finds you have any sizable quantity of one or both, you're in heap-big trouble with the law."

"Right. So who would have either of them around?"

Carlton continued reading the paper, with Juliet watching patiently. He knew he read slowly – he had to mentally flip letters over to their right sides – and he also appreciated the fact that she never said anything about his slowness or showed even an iota of annoyance about it. "Okay, so…somebody around here somewhere has ricin and abrin, or knows how to make it."

"Right, but who?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." He sat back, shuffling the papers. "Y'know, Woody said something about witch doctors and voodoo priestesses."

"Does Santa Barbara have any witch doctors or voodoo priestesses?"

"I'm sure they're in the Yellow Pages," he said dryly. "Look under 'Locusta' or 'Borgia', and if that doesn't work, try 'Poisons R Us'."

"We could draw a pentagram and chant something like 'We summon thee, ye demon priestess! We need to question you!'" she said excitedly.

"That would only call up my ex-wife, and I don't need her to know I've done any acting. God only knows what she'd do about it. Probably declare whatever talent I might possess as an actor is community property and then demand half of it."

"Wait…she didn't know about that?"

"Why would I tell her?" he asked simply, shrugging. "I would have told her eventually, I guess, but by the time 'eventually' came along, we were fighting all the time and…" He ran a hand through his hair. "You know, whenever we fought, I would send her roses. Towards the end, our house looked and smelled like a flower shop on Mother's Day."

Juliet smiled at him, her expression sad nonetheless. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Carlton," she said simply. She had expressed her sympathy to him long ago, and already knew he wouldn't accept any more of the same again. It was frightening and heartening to know that she could read him so well and knew when _not_ to push a subject.

"I got over it." He drank down the rest of his iced tea. "I've got ice-box lemon pie for dessert, if you'd like."

"Ooh! Yes!" she clapped her hands. "Mind if I come to the rehearsal this afternoon?"

"No. I don't mind."

"Need to run some lines?" she grinned. "I was hell as Juliet. The…other Juliet, I mean, but I can at least read back lines."

"You're perfect as the real one," he said. She stared up at him, and he grabbed the paper plates and fled back into the kitchen. He shoved the remains of their lunch into the trash and stood in the middle of the kitchen for a moment, running a hand through his hair, and turned around to bump into his partner, who put her hand on his chest for just a brief, terrifying, exhilarating moment before stepping back.

"I'll meet you at the theater then," she said briskly.

"Right. Right. Good." Okay, so she's going to let that go and pretend it didn't happen. Resetting the boundaries, of course. Don't stand so close, keep your hands to yourself, mind your own business, avoid eye contact for any inappropriate number of seconds, and it'll all clear away and she'll go away for another weekend with her idiot boyfriend who treats her like she couldn't possibly do her job without him around to do it for her, and things will get back to normal and I'll be around to at least _attempt_ to comfort her when the jackass does something stupid again, which is as likely as snow in the North Pole.

Or maybe she was just being nice, because she was always nice and he was always either horrible or inappropriate or a twit and she accepted that anyway and appeared to like him, or at least tolerate him pretty well.

He was thinking in run-on sentences again. He remembered why he had come in here, and opened the 'fridge, its contents rattling as he took the pie out and released it onto the countertop, where it waited, trembling, for consumption. He cut her a slice and plopped it onto another paper plate.

"Should I curtsy to the Prince of Denmark?" she asked, looking amused again as she tucked into her pie. He felt like a giant live wire, watching her as she took a bite of the pie and closed her eyes, sighing happily.

God, he wished he were lemon pie. Or at least that incredibly lucky fork.

He dragged his fevered mind out of the gutter and gave himself a hard mental slap. "Good Lord, no. Besides, I think we're rehearsing the final scene – the swordfight. I'll be lucky if I don't break an actor."

* * *

><p>"Okay, people! People! This is a preliminary rehearsal," Hudson was yelling from his seat. "Tom, are you ready?"<p>

Carlton didn't initially react, because he was keeping an eye on Juliet, who was seated in the front row, knees crossed and obviously dreaming about lemon pie with whipped cream topping. She had eaten two pieces.

"Tom!"

He jerked back into reality, telling himself to focus. "Right. I'm ready."

"Good. Now, we're just going to do a little sword-fighting here, for practice, before we go into the final scene. Tom, pick a foil and try not to put out anybody's eye. Our insurance premiums are high enough what with the dead Englishman."

As an Irishman, Carlton couldn't help but think that the more dead Englishmen there were, the better, but he shrugged and picked up a foil. The actor portraying Laertes – George – picked up another sword and slashed the air with it. Unfortunately, he didn't have a good grip on it and the sword flew out of his hand and skittered across the stage, the grip smacking against Carlton's foot and finally rolling toward the footlights, where it stopped. He glared at George, who looked apologetic and picked up the sword again.

"Okay…I assume you can remember your lines," Carlton said, keeping his voice low, feeling no need to humiliate the man – yet - and George nodded.

"Good. My ears aren't impressive, but I want to keep them – they tend to be useful at times, so no _upward_ slashes. And no _low_ slashes, either, as I also want to keep other appendages, thank you. So keep your balance. Pretend you're Inigo Montoya, but that I don't have six fingers on either hand. Take it easy and we'll get through this alive." He studied the other man carefully, taking in his nervousness. He frankly didn't look like a murderer, but then most people don't look like murderers. Their neighbors were always surprised when a killer is hauled away and they tell reporters, 'He was so nice and quiet, and we really didn't take much note of the dogs and cats in the neighborhood disappearing, or of that strange odor coming from his basement…'

"Who will you pretend to be?" George asked nervously.

"Well, I think I'll try for Hamlet for now, if you don't mind. If that doesn't work, I'll give Cyrano de Bergerac a shot. Shall we?" He slashed the air with his foil and moved easily into a proper stance. He had taken a few fencing lessons in college, mainly for stage productions, but had also found the discipline useful in other areas of his life.

Carlton went through the practice well, and they went into the final scene from there. George held his own, and showed that he did actually possess some talent, albeit not really as a fencer. Carlton forced King Claudius to drink the poison from the (empty) cup, gave his final speech and 'died' without making much of a fuss (there never was a point to a lot of gasping and drawing out the scene too much, to him). Fortinbras strode onto the stage, did his thing, and Hudson clapped, looking pleased. "Very nice, everybody. Very nice. George, a word?"

Carlton got up off the floor and everybody sat down for a break. Carlton helped Queen Gertrude up, then assisted King Claudius back to his feet, and the remaining actors lounged around, murmuring amongst themselves. The director climbed up on the stage and talked briefly with George, who nodded vigorously. Carlton sat down at the table with Queen Gertrude and chatted amiably with her, lazily slashing the air with his foil.

* * *

><p>Caroline Watson sat down next to Juliet, smiling a polite hello, which surprised her. She eyed the slightly older woman, remembering all too well that last night, Shawn had forced her to watch an episode of <em>Galaxerotica<em> from his DVD collection of the entire series. To sit next to a person she had seen naked just a few hours ago was more than a little unsettling, she realized. Shawn sure hadn't been laughing, and Juliet had left his apartment without him even really noticing, what with his eyes being glued to the screen.

"So…how long have you been working with Detective Lassiter?" Caroline asked, keeping her voice at a low whisper.

"Um…almost seven years now."

"Really?" Caroline looked up at Carlton, who was now trying to give George pointers on holding a sword correctly and not putting out eyes. "Is he dating anybody?"

"W-what? Oh. Um…no. Not that I know of."

"Really. Well, that's good to know. I mean…really…good." She smiled a little. "Call me old-fashioned, but I do like a cute butt and sexy eyes…tall and dark…a little shy, big and strong. He's got that all going for him, doesn't he?"

Juliet swallowed. "Uh…" Yes, so he had a cute butt. She had always thought so. And 'sexy' wasn't even a completely apt description of Carlton's eyes. Sexy wasn't even scratching the _surface_. Shy, definitely, though he covered that by being grouchy and growly and touchy-tempered, and he was as strong as a team of Clydesdales on steroids when properly motivated.

"Oh, it's all right. Nothing wrong with _looking_, is there? I mean, look at the guy – not cute at all, I'll admit, aside from the butt, but cute is boring, don't you think? After a while, when you've gone through the boys, you want a _man_. Cute, non-threatening boys…bleh! This man, though…the nose is a little crooked, but very interesting, and you know there's a story there, and the ears stick out, but that actually makes the package all that much more…arresting," she said, laughing at her own pun. "Salt and pepper hair, _unbelievably_ blue eyes…mmm…yes, break me off a piece of that!"

Juliet wasn't sure if she should shoot Caroline or pull her hair out. She was leaning toward the former. "Um…Carlton is…well, he's…divorced…it was very painful for him…he's still a little…"

"Somebody threw _that_ back?" Caroline looked astonished, and studied her partner carefully. He was galloping through the scene in Queen Gertrude's bedroom. "What, was she blind or just stupid?"

"Both," Juliet muttered under her breath.

"Well. Her loss. I think I'll ask him out. I tried to get him to come to the party tonight, but he passed."

"I…I'm not sure if that's a good idea."

"_You're_ not dating him, are you?" Caroline whispered. Up on the stage, Carlton was stabbing Polonius through the window curtain.

"What? No. No, of course not. I'm…I'm dating…the…uh…"

"The _psychic_? Are you kidding me?" Caroline hooted with laughter. "Oh. Sorry. But…really? What's he, about twelve?"

"He's thirty-six," Juliet muttered.

"Still twelve, though, and lousy in bed, huh?"

Juliet stared, aghast, at the actress, who raised her hands in mock surrender. "I can always tell if a guy's good in the sack. He's selfish, right? It's all about him, him, and only him. I'll bet he screams his own name at the Climactic Moment."

The sound of the doors opening made Juliet jump, and she looked back to see Shawn and Gus bounding up the aisle. Carlton rolled his eyes heavenward, the scene screeching to a halt. Juliet stood up, feeling heat rise to her cheeks, partly from embarrassment and partly from anger at how easily Caroline had pegged Shawn's _deficiencies_. She marched up the aisle and headed her boyfriend off, giving Gus a look that told him to stand still and not speak until spoken to.

"Listen to me, Shawn," she hissed. "Listen _carefully_, which I know you're not good at, but I want you to _try_. Carlton is under cover. His name, as far as the cast knows, is Tom. If I hear you refer to him as anything other than _Tom_ I will shoot it _off_."

Shawn looked down toward _it_ and nodded. Gus nodded, too. Juliet gave him a hard look. "If he starts anything, I don't care if you have to gag him, but you will shut him up!" she hissed. Gus nodded vigorously.

"Hiya, Tom!" Shawn crowed, grinning and waving at Carlton, who glowered down at him. "Tom! Can I talk to you a minute? Please? I want your autograph, for one thing and…"

"What is this blithering idiot doing here?" Hudson shouted, clattering down the stairs and zeroing in on Shawn, eyes ablaze with rage.

Shawn hid behind Juliet and peered at Hudson over her shoulder. "I was just here to visit my good friend Tom here."

"Where in the name of all that's holy did you ever get the idea that we were friends?" Carlton snapped from the stage, still holding his foil.

Shawn had the gall to look hurt. Gus held his tongue, and Juliet glanced over at Caroline, who was gazing up at Carlton as if he were the answer to every prayer she had ever said. Her partner was glaring at Shawn, clearly irritated, and Juliet was tempted to get her Glock out and start shooting, starting with Caroline and ending with Shawn.

* * *

><p>"Okay. For starters, let me just say, Lassie - I really like the sword."<p>

They were standing in a small area backstage. Juliet was standing close to her partner, and could smell his cologne - something kind of cedary and pleasant. She took a brief whiff of Shawn. He smelled like..._cheese_. Old cheese. That had gone _bad_.

"It's a _foil_…you starvelling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, you bull's-pizzle, you stock-fish. O for breath to utter what is like thee, you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck!" Carlton hissed, glancing around to make sure no one had heard Shawn call him by his almost-real name.

Juliet and Gus stared, wide-eyed, at Carlton. Shawn gasped and took a step backwards, looking bewildered.

"That was…I…well…well, you're a…I mean…I'm rubber and you're glue! Whatever you say bounces off me and…and sticks to _you_!" Shawn said. "I think. Unless, of course, that was a compliment, then…thanks."

"I'm pretty sure he insulted you," Gus said. "In fact, right now, as the former King of Snarky Ass-Hatted Put-Downs, you should be on the floor, screaming 'Medic!'"

"It was from _Henry the Fourth, Part One_," Carlton finally said, rubbing his forehead. He had sat up all night reading through Shakespeare's plays and sonnets, and it had all come back to him pretty easily, particularly the more colorful insults. The only play he had never acted in had actually been _Troilus and Cressida_, and that had been because he had come down with the flu right before rehearsals started and the fever had killed off most of the dialog from his brain. The understudy had done all right, actually. He had seen him in a movie recently, actually…

"Part one? Did Henry beat Mr T in that one, or was it the Russian?"

Carlton's hands formed into fists and Shawn took another step back. The faux psychic nodded and tried again. "Listen, Gus and I did a little research about the rice-aroni and the Ambien and found out they're made from casters and rosary beads."

"Castor beans and rosary peas," Gus corrected, looking annoyed.

"I know!" Carlton snapped. "And it's ricin and abrin, you idol of idiot-worshippers."

"Whoa…Shawn, he zinged you again! And pretty damn' good, I gotta say," Gus said, staring at Carlton with newfound admiration. "I'm amazed you're not bleeding, dude!"

"He…wh-…hey, now…" Shawn looked truly offended now. "What's that one from?"

"_Troilus and Cressida_," Carlton nodded. "One of the lesser-known plays. Listen to me, thou loathed issue of thy father's loins - I know how the two poisons are made. O'Hara's already looking into it, and Woody sent us a report."

She nodded, still staring at Carlton in awed wonder. Shawn just looked bewildered, while Gus looked strangely triumphant. "We haven't found anybody in the area that is making either poison, much less supplying them. Ricin and abrin are both illegal to possess, but you can possess the plants used to make them. Everybody in the cast and crew checked out, but it's obvious somebody connected with the play did the poisoning. We just need to know where they got it and we might have a lead."

"Caroline said that Sir Reginald had been drinking a lot more than usual," Carlton pointed out. "He was forgetting lines, even, for a few days before the performance. Somebody really was actively poisoning him, then, and for a while. Maybe even putting the poison in his drinks, and his poor health helped the poison along." He studied O'Hara, whose eyebrows went up.

"I'll check with the CSU and see if they found anything. They may not have checked the bottles that were in his dressing room."

"I'm sure they did. They're _trained professionals_, O'Hara, and you know they do a damned good job. They don't even need a fake psychic to tell them what to do." Carlton said, giving Shawn and Gus a cold look. The fraudulent psychic had the good sense to look chastised, while Gus just grinned. Carlton stalked away, back to the stage, to put a bit of sharpening to the first two acts of the play. He almost forgot to give up the foil before he started the scene.

It was going to be a long day.


	5. Voodoo?  Who do?

Good Lord, it was one a.m. and my fingers wouldn't quit until I got this one in.

* * *

><p>Juliet was sitting near the desk of a little man from the CSU, watching as he tapped at his keyboard and muttered spells at his screen. She couldn't help but think that a stiff breeze could knock him on his hinder, but he had been extremely helpful if…<em>odd<em>. Then again, she suspected that she was the first live (and possibly non-inflatable) human being he had seen in quite a while, thus his eagerness to assist her in any way he could, including fetching her a cup of (_really_ bad) coffee, a (very dry) bear claw and her pick of any pen in his drawer. She had gone for the one that was shaped like a purple flamingo, because she knew it make Carlton snicker when he saw it.

The CSU had indeed collected the bottles from Sir Reginald Livingstone's dressing room, and according to this strange little man – who reminded her so much of the White Rabbit in the _Alice in Wonderland_ Disney movie, right down to a fob and pocketwatch – they had all tested positive for abrin. Only the cup from which the actor had drunk before he died had shown traces of ricin, and it had had no traces of abrin at all.

"Neither of the drugs were actually pure ricin or abrin," he told her, blinking as he handed her the papers. "They were made fairly naturally, and not in a lab of any kind. I know of only two nurseries in the area that cultivate castor bean plants, and only one of them actually grows rosary peas. Very interesting way of poisoning someone, I must say. Whoever did it was going for something dramatic…which I suppose is the point, considering it was _Hamlet_."

She nodded, reading over the toxicology report. Most of the scientific terms went over her head – she never did well at science categories on _Jeopardy_ – but the way the drugs killed made her shiver – both basically went after the major organs, shutting them down one by one as they worked their way through the victim's system. Abrin and ricin both attacked the cells, preventing them from making proteins, while abrin was the more poisonous of the two. Abrin had never been used for chemical warfare, but ricin had, and lots of people had died very painfully from it. She couldn't help but imagine that even poor, gin-soaked Sir Reginald had been in a lot of pain in the final days of his life. He had also been pretty stupid to have not said anything to anybody about it.

"There's no cure for either types of poison," the little man – Dr Allen – told her. "Whoever is making it should certainly be careful in how they handle it."

"Right. Thank you, Doctor Allen," she said, she said, smiling brightly at him.

"Any time." He smiled happily at her, showing rather largish teeth, and she had to resist an urge to pet him on his head, as she would a bunny. Forgoing that, she fled, a piece of paper with the names of the two garden nurseries clutched in her hand.

Back upstairs, she sat down at her desk and glanced over at Carlton's. He wasn't there, of course – he was back at the theater, finishing up rehearsal and likely being groped by Caroline Watson, or at the very least _ogled_. Her hand clenched into fists at the very _thought_ of some porn star-cum-Shakespearean strumpet manhandling – or, womanhandling - Carlton. He wouldn't know what to do, for one thing, and would probably freak out and become agitated and start yelling and who would be there to soothe him?

She had honed that down to an art, in the past six years. She would see his eyes narrow and his mouth curl into a snarl and knew exactly how quickly she needed to step into his line of vision and speak quietly to him, as if he were a thoroughly pissed-off or (even slightly) frightened colt. A few sugar cubes (or at least some good coffee), some soft words of encouragement and he would be calm again, or at least somewhat less likely to wreak havoc on whoever had been stupid enough to annoy him.

Sighing, she sat back in her seat, crossing her arms as she remembered what he had said during lunch – that she was perfect as the real Juliet. There were various meanings to that, of course, but Carlton was a lot like Spanish – every word and every expression has one meaning and she had spent a lot of time learning how to speak his language. It was a fascinating tongue, actually – a little lift of the eyebrow when Shawn was grandstanding meant 'I can't believe he was ever actually potty-trained', while a small tic in the right eye meant that he was getting closer and closer to an explosion of temper and Shawn had to leave or have limbs removed manually and without anesthetic.

Her partner had so many different smiles, she thought, laughing to herself. About a dozen. There was the one that he used when saying something sarcastic to a person who was clearly dumber than a post. The little ice-smile he used when having to talk to a person above him in the pecking order of the SBPD (save Vick, whom he genuinely respected) – that smile never warmed his eyes, but froze them into the color of the Arctic Ocean. Then there was that polite smile he would plaster on when dealing with somebody he knew was lying to him, followed by the smug little smirk that meant he had just sprung the trap on said liar. Finally there was that smooth Sean Connery smile of his that meant he was calmly tightening the noose while the liar was still blithering away.

She went over her lunch with him, smiling softly at the idea that he thought she was perfect. She knew she wasn't perfect, of course, but it was kind of nice to think that her partner thought that way about her.

Never mind that lately, she had started to think that way about him, too. Not that he _was_ perfect – far from it. He was a walking flaw factory, really, but his flaws were never annoying. His deficiencies, too, were extremely interesting – endearitating was a word she had invented to describe him - and he actually did recognize those flaws and really did want to improve himself. Like his dyslexia, for instance, which seemed to explain his OCD-ness and dogged determination to overcome all obstacles. If he was brusque and short with a lot of people, she knew he gave a damn when he hurt somebody he cared about.

_Shawn doesn't_, a little voice in her head told her. _ When has he ever cared what kind of trouble he causes? Name one time he's ever acted like he was sorry for something he's said, or done? Carlton might be insensitive at times, but it's always obvious that he knows he's said the wrong thing_…

Juliet realized she was tapping her pencil on her desk, which caused Henry to look up at her, with just a trace of annoyance on his face. She smiled apologetically and opened her laptop.

Dr Allen had not had the addresses of the two nurseries, and she looked them up online, scribbling the addresses down quickly before getting up. If she could snag Carlton when rehearsal was over, she could get him to come with her and do some quiet snooping. Wandering around a garden nursery in the springtime with Carlton, meanwhile, might not be a bad experience in the meantime. If only to hear him grouch about it. Smiling, she got up and grabbed her purse and her keys, looking forward to seeing him again.

* * *

><p>"Oh, dear God in heaven, save me from this," Carlton muttered. He hadn't been able to escape from the theater before the party started. There was only wine, for one thing, which he didn't like, and there was a tray of assorted cheeses and crackers on the table. He grabbed a handful of grapes, made a crackers 'n cheese sandwich, and let Hudson pour him a glass of white wine.<p>

"Excellent work, Tom," Hudson said, glancing around the room, which was full of actors noshing on anything they could get their hands. Typical, he thought. He remembered the post-performance parties back in college – they would all chip in and haul in a ten-foot long hoagie, a keg of beer, some onion dip and challenge each other to 'Guess the Play': someone had to quote a line from a well-known play, and the designated guesser had to get it right or take a shot of whiskey. Carlton had always been grateful for his near-perfect recall back then, because he usually made it home in one piece. In those days, he prided himself on always being sober enough to know when he was drunk.

He snorted to himself. How long had it been since he'd read _The Irish R.M._? Twenty years? Thirty? He had written a pretty good paper on it in college, and had gotten an 'A' on it, what with his English lit professor being an Irishman himself and appreciative of any Western Irish writer, particularly writers as obscure as Somerville and Ross. Carlton had certainly been able to identify with Major Yeates (an officer of the law, more or less), but he had sympathized with Flurry Knox and his compatriots even more.

He took a quick swig of his wine, wincing, and moved again from his position along the wall to another position near the door – Caroline Watson was edging in his direction again. She was slightly tipsy now, so he didn't feel he was in immediate danger, but he wasn't taking any chances.

He was also keeping an eye on George Pons, who seemed a little too gregarious to his thinking. The usually nervous actor was waxing eloquent about some play he had starred in, years ago, in New York and Carlton tuned his ear toward him. What he was saying definitely peaked his interest then.

"…lead actor in the play became very ill, and since I was the understudy, I got the role. Right there on Broadway, doing _Nathan Detroit_! I was good, they said. Really, really good." George took a lengthy draught of his wine and refilled his glass.

Carlton had always seen more of himself in Sky Masterson, but he moved a little closer just the same and took another sip of his wine. Dreadful.

"So…what happened to the original actor?" Carlton asked, hoping he sounded casual. It was hard to tell, what with having to yell over the sound of a couple of actors arguing about the underlying socio-political themes of _Wicked_. Frankly, Carlton had never thought of any such thing with regard to that particular musical.

"Oh, he got sicker and sicker…faded away to nothing after a while, and finally just…died," George said, looking properly sad, but Carlton noticed the very slight shrug of the man's shoulders.

"Oh. That's too bad," Carlton nodded. "Did you know him well?"

"Barely," George answered.

"What was his na-…"

Carlton was caught off guard by Caroline Watson suddenly attaching herself to him, lamprey-like, and smiling up at him. She was as pissed as a newt. "Hi!" she bleated.

"Uh…hi?"

"Do you like your wine? 'sh goo' wine, innit?"

"It tastes like bat spit, actually."

"Oh, well, then I'll take it!" she said, and snatched the glass from his hand and drank its contents down in one gulp.

_Oookay_, this could only go rather badly. "Uh, Ms Watson, you're drinking just a bit too much," he said, hoping he sounded polite instead of aggravated. The other two actors were now yelling at each other about the works of Tennessee Williams, and the effort of avoiding any kind of inappropriate physical contact with a drunk former porn star and worrying about violence between two rather fey actors was giving him a headache. The inebriated actress was his first concern, of course – the actors might bitch-slap each around a little, at most, but he was a peace officer.

A peace officer _under cover_. He swallowed nervously and tried to keep one eye on Caroline's now wandering hands and the other on the two hissing actors, who had now resorted to name-calling. He could feel the scratchings that were happening at the center of his cerebellum, tearing apart the very fabric of his psyche. Thinking about two things at once always gave him terrible migraines, and what with the addition of temperamental actors and wine, he basically just wanted to put a gun in his mouth or at least go hide under the stage until everybody went home.

"Okay, okay…that's enough, Caroline," he said firmly. "Grab that again and…and…uh…" He would have ordinarily slapped the cuffs on her, but he had a feeling she might enjoy that too much. "Just don't do that, okay?" he said, moving away from her. He handed his glass to Hudson, who was on his way over to stop the kittenfight ("What are you talking about? Of course Big Daddy was Gooper's father!") and headed for the exit, having had quite enough.

And people wondered why he had given up acting.

* * *

><p>Juliet heard all the yelling from backstage and paused at the foot of the stairs, wondering, when Carlton came skittering out, looking a bit wild-eyed. "What's going on in there?" she whispered.<p>

"Actors," he told her. "Bad wine. Tennessee Williams. Cheese. Do you have any Excedrin?"

She dug in her purse and found the bottle, handing it to him. He extracted two pills and dry-swallowed them (something she never could do), rubbing his temples. "What brings you here?"

"I got a lead, sort of. CSU did indeed test the bottles in Livingstone's dressing room, and there were traces of abrin in them all. Lots, actually." She dug in her purse and extracted Dr Allen's report, handing it to her partner, who read it over as she waited. When he finished, he handed it back, nodding.

"I have a bit of a lead, too. D'you know, George Pons was in a play back in New York where the lead actor kicked the bucket and he got to take over the role? I think we need to have a look in George's dressing room. Maybe there's something…either way, I want to check him out again."

"Okay," she nodded. "Sounds fine to me. Swinging party?" She climbed up the steps and watched her partner look around the stage. The way he stood there – hands on his hips, a little arrogant-looking, and sort of annoyed – made her heartbeat quicken. He turned back and looked at her, one eyebrow lifting. Her heartbeat went into overdrive.

"It was horrible. C'mon!"

They slipped behind the scene of the hall in Elsinore and moved along the dark passageway, past his own tiny dressing room, which Juliet glanced into and wondered how he didn't suffocate in there, and finally reached George's door. He jiggled the handle and mumbled to himself. "Locked."

"Damn!"

"Uh…we could…always, you know…unlock it."

She was surprised. "That's kind of illegal."

"I'm undercover."

"I'm not!"

"So if I were to, say, uh…do something a little illegal, maybe slightly naughty, and get a lead, you would…disapprove?"

Juliet pondered Carlton doing something naughty, except it had nothing to do with doors. She swallowed, glad it was so dark in the cramped hallway, because she knew she was blushing now, and couldn't think of a coherent answer to his question.

"Okay, so…listen, we need a lead, O'Hara. Last thing I want to do is end up on stage Friday night, sweating in my socks. So give me a pin."

"A pen? How would a pen…?"

"A _pin_. A pin! A hairpin, a stickpin, a _pin_. _Not_ a bowling pin."

"Oh." She fumbled in her purse, and then felt his fingers brushing through her hair and into her braid. Juliet looked up at her partner, eyes wide with shock, and started to say something that she hoped would sound coherent when he grinned triumphantly. "Found one! I knew you'd have one." He held up the hairpin. "Alas, poor hairpin, I knew him well, Juliet…I knew his braids, his buns, his geometrically impossible twists and curls…" He bent the pin into a nearly straight line and began jiggling it into the keyhole. "Remember _Moonlighting_?"

"Huh?"

"_Moonlighting_. Bruce Willis and whatsername…series on ABC, years ago. Quite clever, actually. Did a great send-up of _Taming of the Shrew_. He had a song to sing while trying to open locked doors with pins…" Juliet watched in astonishment as her partner began singing, making a graceful turn as he went through the song's motions.

_You stick the pin in_

_You pull the pin out_

_You stick the pin in_

_And you shake it all about_

_You do the hokey-pokey and you turn yourself around_

_That's what it's all about!_

_Yah!_

The lock clicked and Carlton opened the door, looking triumphant. "See? Works every time!"

"Oh my God…" she whispered, following him into the room. "You're like an artichoke!"

"Eh?" He turned the light on and looked around the room.

"Peel back one layer, and there's another astounding layer underneath!"

He shrugged, stopped in his tracks, and put his hands on his hips. "My God, this room is at least three sizes bigger than mine!"

"Carlton…"

"Look at that!" he hissed, infuriated. "He has a shower stall!" He opened the shower door, which was covered by a large beach towel, and frowned before closing it. "And look at that! A toilet! He has his own bog, for God's sake! I have to go upstairs!"

"Maybe he knows somebody," she said, shrugging helplessly, still trying to recover from seeing her partner doing the Stickpin Dance. "See anything yet?"

He moved to the dressing table and began opening drawers. He leaned in to peer at a photograph stuck into the edge of the mirror. "Huh – a picture of Judy Garland." His brow furrowed when he spotted something in one of the drawers, and he slowly extracted it. Juliet peered around him and her eyes widened with horror.

"You have _got_ to be kidding!"

He held up the small cloth doll, which was impaled with numerous needles. Its face was drawn in black ink, and bore a remarkably accurate resemblance to Sir Reginald Livingstone. It was dressed in an Elizabethan-type outfit that looked a lot like the one the late actor had been wearing when he had died.

"Voodoo," Juliet whispered, feeling a little sick to her stomach.

He gingerly put the doll on the dressing table and shuffled through its contents before extracting another doll. He swallowed and held it up, and Juliet covered her mouth with her hand.

"He looks like you!" she gasped.

"No…uh…needles yet! Wait, what am I saying? This is ridiculous! There's no such thing as…I mean, there's no…proof…that…er…" He looked down at the doll. Sharply drawn eyebrows, blue eyes (drawn with a blue marker), dark hair, nose a little crooked…yep, he was looking at his little voodoo self. "Can I have a nervous breakdown now, because I really need one." He rubbed his face. "No! No, I am a rational man. I am not going to get drawn into this…but it's pretty clear George had it in for Livingstone, right?" He did _not_ want to say that George might also be gunning for him now.

"Yes, I would say so," Juliet nodded. She looked around the little brick-walled room. "Let's get out of here. This is creeping me out."

"Right." He shoved the two dolls back into the drawer and started toward the door. His heart flew into his throat, however, when he heard footsteps in the hallway. "Crap! Somebody's coming!"

"See? See, I knew we would get caught!" she hissed. She barely got the words out, however, before Carlton quietly closed the dressing room door, locked it, turned off the light and dragged her into the shower stall, shutting the door silently. He turned to face her, and looked down.

"I'm standing on a _hairball_," he whispered. She covered her mouth with her hand and struggled to keep from laughing out loud. The entire situation was so ridiculous that laughter was the only reasonable option. She couldn't see him in the darkness, but she knew what expression he was wearing – he was _appalled_.

"Shhh! Dammit, be quiet!"

The door opened and the light came on. They held their breath, waiting, and realized they were standing extremely close to each other. Carlton breathed in slowly, inhaling the delicious scent of her perfume and her shampoo and storing it away in the corner of his brain where he stored all his favorite things about Juliet. He would take those scents and images out later tonight, when he was alone. He had long ago given up on any notion of resisting them.

They listened to George shuffle around in the drawers of his dressing table, and then they heard his chair creak – he was sitting down. Carlton's shoulders sagged and he looked up, then around the shower stall, finding the marks on the walls fascinating. Juliet breathed in the scent of his cologne. She was about as high as his shoulders, height-wise, and she examined them next. They were so wide and strong, as was his chest and his arms. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his chest hair was so curly and crinkly, a mixture of black and gray. Shyly, she glanced up at him and caught him staring down at her, blue eyes intense.

They had to stay quiet. George was still in there, and far all Juliet knew, the nutjob was sticking pins into poor voodoo Carlton's body. She nonetheless held his gaze, letting herself get lost in that perfect blue. Maybe if she kept him distracted, George wouldn't be able to hurt him, even with stickpins.

She was so lovely. So soft and sweet and kind. She was all he had ever wanted, all he would ever want, and she was pressed up against him, with barely an inch of space to spare in the tiny stall. Even though he knew she couldn't possibly want him and even though he knew she would regret it, he couldn't stop himself. He wasn't a robot, and he would apologize to her later and do all he could to make it right tomorrow, even if it killed him.

His head dipped slightly and her lips parted and her eyes closed as his mouth finally brushed hers. She softly sighed into his mouth and silently slipped her arms around his neck, kissing him back.


	6. Something to Talk About

I don't know. I sorta felt like smacking Shawn around in this one. Shawniacs beware. He'll be okay. Some day.

* * *

><p>Wow.<p>

Just…_wow_.

Juliet stared up at her partner, who was struggling to regain his composure. Outside the shower stall, they could hear George muttering to himself, and she was starting to wonder if the man would ever actually leave, but she was frankly grateful he was still there, because that meant she could persuade Carlton to kiss her again. She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips, and he started to speak, but she put her fingers on his mouth to shush him. That seemed to do the trick – he pulled her to him again and kissed her, long and deep and desperate, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her against him. Good God, he tasted good, and his hair was silky-soft, his hands were doing a nice bit of wandering, and hot _damn_ he was a good kisser.

Through her haze of passion and delight, she vaguely heard a drawer close, and the lights suddenly went out.

"I think he's gone now," she whispered against his mouth. At that, he let her go, setting her feet back on the shower floor – she hadn't even really _noticed_ that she had hooked her leg over his thigh and was pressed so close to him she could have been wearing his clothes. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and she could make out his eyes – they were almost _glowing_, with a mixture of sheer terror and blatant desire.

"Carlton…" She knew what was happening – he was shutting down. Or worse yet, freaking out and getting ready to tear the door down to get out of the room. Not necessarily away from her, she knew, but away from his own fears.

"We should…uh…get going. You…you said something about a…uh…what was it again…a…a…flower something…thingy…nursery!"

"Carlton."

"We should really go see about it," he told her, his voice rising as he ran his hands through his hair. "_My God_…" He was becoming frantic now.

"_Carlton_," she said again, more firmly.

"Listen, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. I swear, I'll never do it again. I don't know what came over me. I…"

"You're apologizing?" she whispered, and reminded herself that he was panicking. He wouldn't meet her eyes, and finally pushed the door open and stepped out. He turned back to her and extended his shaking hand to help her out. She took it, sliding her fingers along his palm and to his wrist, hoping she could soothe and reassure him. He took a deep breath before letting her go and turning away.

He bumped his shin on the chair and yelped, then staggered to the door and turned on the light. "Of course I'm apologizing!" he hissed. "What else would I do? I kiss a woman, I apologize. Immediately…once she stops _screaming and hitting me with her purse_!"

"What are you talking about?" she asked. She closed the shower door carefully and faced him. "Wait a minute…you actually think…you actually think that…you actually think a woman would react that way?"

"We need to get out of here _now_, O'Hara. Now!"

She stared at him, knowing he was totally unprepared for this. For all his toughness and sheer courage, she knew that Carlton had very little self-confidence when it came to women. He was accustomed to rejection and being treated unfairly, and even appeared to _expect_ it. He leaning against the door, hand gripping the knob and staring at her, blue eyes intense. She suspected she could destroy him with one wrongly-phrased statement.

_Tread carefully._

Finally she stepped closer to him. He needed to know, and she had every intention of giving him the idea to chew on for a while until he was a little calmer and could talk to her.

"Listen to me, Carlton," she said firmly.

"I'm listening," he said, sounding utterly frantic.

"I liked it."

"You…"

"And I hope we do it again. Soon. And _often_."

With that, she shoved him aside, opened the door, and walked out into the pokey hallway. A few moments later, she heard him following her, his steps measured. Juliet didn't glance back at him, even as she made her way to the stage and down the steps. He finally clattered down after her, and she almost laughed when she heard him muttering under his breath. He was already mulling. His panic would fade and he would put his defenses back up again – the wall would get some frantic repairs and he would withdraw, but Juliet knew, now, how to deal with that.

She had no intention of letting him get away.

He would get a few things wrong, obviously, but she would set him to rights soon enough. Outside, she leaned against the Crown Vic, arms crossed, and waited for him. When he stepped outside, blinking against the late-afternoon sunshine, she opened the passenger side door. "I think I should drive," she told him.

"I…" He looked as though he didn't know what the word 'drive' meant.

"Come on. Get in."

He held up his hand. "Give me a minute. I think I'm having a stroke."

"Maybe George is applying the needles! C'mon…let's go!"

* * *

><p>She had to be crazy.<p>

He had let his guard down and now he felt like he was spinning out of control. Nothing was making any sense any more, and he needed his life and the world around him to make _sense_ or he couldn't think. Feeling like he was about to suffocate, he rolled the window down and gulped in air. Juliet looked at him, but still said nothing. Just kept driving, heading toward the Golden Palace Garden Center, and he figured she was thinking of getting some mouthwash and then would go to Vick and demand a new partner.

_She said she liked it, you moron_.

No she didn't! That was just wishful thinking on your part, you stupid ass! Why would she?

_She still did. And she kissed you back, big boy, so deal. Oh, and while you're dealing with it, **go** for it! This is what you've dreamed of, prayed for, and wished for and drove yourself crazy over the past six years!_

"Shut up!" he hissed under his breath.

O'Hara looked at him. They were stopped at a red light, and he had to look out to see if his heart wasn't bouncing over the car next to theirs and skittering up the street.

"What was that?" she asked.

"What's the first sign that you're losing your mind?" he asked her, rubbing his face.

"You start talking to yourself, I think."

"Yes. Hamlet did that, too. And I've been known to talk to the washing machine."

She smiled. "You would only be really crazy if the washing machine talked back, Carlton. Was Hamlet really crazy?"

"I never knew how to answer that question. And no, the washing machine doesn't talk back." He closed his eyes, drawing in his breath. "I swear to you, O'Hara, what happened back there…I swear, I won't…I won't do that again, if…if you…"

"Did you not hear me?" she asked. She was turning into the nursery parking lot and pulling into a space. "I told you I liked it, and I want it to happen again."

"Wh…what about Spencer?" he asked, his anxiety and stress and sheer terror building.

"I'll talk to him. I've been needing to talk to him for a long time – I need to be honest with him, and should have been a long time ago. Now. Can you hold off your stroke until after we question the manager? I'll need you to be Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective, now, not Carlton Lassiter, Best Damned Kisser Alive. We'll save _that_ for later." She got out of the car before he could respond and headed toward the entrance. Carlton sat in the car for a few more seconds, collecting himself rather admirably before getting out and taking a few deep breaths.

Okay. Grow up, he told himself. You've kissed girls before. The few – the _very_ few - that didn't slap him or run away in horror had told him that he was a good kisser. His even fewer bedmates had informed him that he was rather good in the whole…_sex_ department, mainly because he was rather focused and very driven, and believed that the woman in question should enjoy herself as much as possible. He didn't like talking about sex, because he was of the strongly held philosophy that the more a guy talked about sex, the less he was actually doing it. Sex was also an extremely personal matter between himself and the woman he was doing it to, and so therefore that was another reason to not talk about it, because sex was in and of itself a rather embarrassing and slightly ridiculous topic.

Getting out of the car, he reflected on the very _few_ women he had actually bedded over the course of his life. There certainly hadn't been many. He hadn't even been able to talk himself into sleeping with Vick's sister Barbara, because she had actually terrified him during their lunch together ("Do you know I'm double-jointed?" had been a phrase he had not been prepared for, and neither was it actually a turn-on). Lucinda Barry had been _accommodating_, for lack of a better term, during their affair, and hadn't asked him too many questions. It had been comfortable, more than anything else, and the end of the relationship had been strangely as uncomplicated as its beginning. He still felt ashamed of himself for having started the whole damned thing to begin with, because he had still been technically married (okay, not technically – completely; you either are or are not married) and still carrying a heavy, exhausting torch for Victoria that had left him reeling and unbalanced for so long that those years were something of a fog.

Juliet was waiting, tapping her foot, as he finally made his way over to her. She was standing outside the manager's office, which was at the near end of a huge, flower-infested greenhouse. Carlton drew in his breath and let her knock on the door. After a few moments, the door opened and the two detectives started briefly at empty space before looking down. The manager was perhaps four feet tall, and was glaring up at them.

"We're closed."

"The sign said 'Open'," Carlton pointed out.

"I forgot to turn it. Whattaya want?"

Carlton flashed his badge, and the little man's belligerence faded a little.

"We're with the Santa Barbara Police," Juliet informed him. "I'm Detective O'Hara, this is Detective Lassiter. What is your name, sir?"

"Kenny Pellinore."

"And you're the manager?" Juliet asked, flipping open her notebook.

"Of course I'm the manager. What would I be doing in here if I wasn't?"

Carlton gave the little man a cold glare, and Pellinore finally shrugged.

"We need to ask you about any recent purchases made of your castor bean plants and your rosary bean plants," Carlton said, adding a touch of 'mind your manners' warning to his voice.

Pellinore looked rather put out, but he was cooperative. He led the two detectives into another greenhouse, past orchids and a row of scary-looking carnivorous plants and finally into 'Poisonous Plants'. "We're required to label them as poisonous," he told them as he pointed out the two plants, looking bored.

"Right." Carlton eyed the two potted plants warily, knowing full well they weren't automatically poisonous – one had to do all manner of work with them to make them remotely dangerous. He looked at Pellinore, who was glaring up at him with beady little eyes that reminded him a lot of a chicken, and, strangely, of a tiny donut maker he had had an unfortunate encounter with a few months ago. "Has anyone bought either plant recently?"

"No."

"Not in the past couple of weeks?" Juliet reiterated.

"Nope." Pellinore shrugged.

"Nobody with a do-rag, a gold earring and a Hungarian accent?" Carlton asked.

Juliet gave her partner an '_I can't believe you just asked that question_' look, and he shrugged.

Pellinore looked annoyed. "My grandmother was Romani."

"How awful for you," Carlton snapped. "Listen…has anybody _stolen_ any of these plants recently?"

"Yeah, we lost a couple of 'em about three weeks ago."

Juliet stared at Pellinore, horrified. "And you didn't report this to anyone?"

"What woulda been the use?"

"A dead Shakespearean actor might disagree with you about how 'useful' it would have been," Carlton told him sharply. Pellinore only frowned and had enough good sense to look a little unhappy, if not entirely contrite. Juliet wrote down the specifics and after he berated the little man for being an idiot, they got back into the Vic. At the first red light, Juliet leaned over and kissed him, making Lassiter lightheaded and unable to consider morality, ethics, two thousand years of Christian doctrine, his social security number, or his date of birth. All he knew was that Juliet O'Hara was kissing _him_ and that miracles actually could happen to battle-scarred old grouches like himself.

* * *

><p>"Okay. So let's focus."<p>

They were sitting together in the conference room, blinds down, door locked. They were behaving quite well so far. She hadn't jumped his bones in the past half hour, and he had managed to get his heart rate back to something resembling normal.

He seriously wanted her to jump his bones again.

He did not want her to jump his bones! What was wrong with him? He wasn't some horny teenager! He was forty-three, irascible, sour-tempered, pessimistic, and so besotted with her he would have happily gone out and picked her a thousand flowers and written her a bunch of idiotic poetry, if she asked. Sure, the flowers would get all wilty and the poetry would have to be in Gaelic, because English poetry sucked, but the thought was still there, wasn't it?

He tapped a list of names on the printout. "There are exactly three voodoo priestesses in Santa Barbara. One is a pedia-…are you kidding? A _pediatrician_?"

"Good Lord. Can you just imagine? 'My baby just had an earache, and you go and turn her into a newt?'"

He snickered. "The other one is just your run-of-the-mill voodoo priestess, from New Orleans, no less…if, uh, 'run-of-the-mill' is an appropriate term for a voodoo priestess. Background checks are in progress, of course. The third one has the charming name of Madame Carnauba, also late of New Orleans. Gee, I wonder if she's Italian…"

"Hm?" Juliet looked at him, curious, and he felt a little overheated she hit him with that stunning blue gaze.

"Uh…excess knowledge of horse racing history. It gets me in trouble sometimes."

"'Splain, please," she grinned.

"Okay. No, no…that'll take too long. I'll sum up. Carnauba won the Italian Oaks. She was kidnapped in nineteen-seventy-five but was found a few months later, and right in the nick of time, too, as she was scheduled to be slaughtered for her meat, poor thing."

"How awful!"

"It's also the name of a type of car wax…" He anxiously rubbed his forehead.

She started laughing. "Carlton."

"Well it _is_," he said, spreading his hands.

She raised an eyebrow at him. He was trying to evade the issue.

"Gimme a break! I'm panicking here," he finally confessed.

"Well, calm down. It's just a voodoo priestess named after an Italian racehorse or car wax. Weird, yes, but weirder things have happened. Didn't you tell me about a little girl you helped get down from a tree, and her name was Melair? 'Named the kid after a little grey filly', you said, but I thought it was kind of a pretty name…"

"That's not what I'm talking about!" he hissed as someone walked by the door. "I still think I'm having some kind of breakdown."

"You're not," she said, shaking her golden head. "You kissed me in that shower. I would have rather preferred you had kissed me out on the beach or on your couch or in the middle of an argument about California penal codes, but I can't complain. I won't complain. Apparently I just have to convince you that I did like it and that I do want to do it again, and very soon, followed by much more and if I can keep you from having a full-blown heart attack, there will be nudity involved. Nonetheless," she said, picking up the papers and straightening them. "We have a murder to solve and three voodoo priestesses to interview."

His head was spinning.

_Nudity_?

* * *

><p>The first two priestesses proved to be dead ends. Dr Leslie Vardeman was a <em>former<em> voodoo priestess who had left that particular faith and now did a lot of holistic medicine along with conventional treatments. Her story checked out beautifully and she was very cooperative, proving only vaguely knowledgeable about castor beans and rosary peas, but had no working knowledge of how to make them into poisonous concoctions. She had never handled either, and didn't know where any could be obtained.

The next voodoo priestess was an old, tiny, blind and very loud woman who hit Carlton three times with her walking stick and stood yelling at a wall while believing she was yelling at Juliet. The two detectives fled from the dank little room, fairly well convinced that she wouldn't poison anybody but could give them one _hell_ of headache. They were both thus quite nervous when they parked in front of a little California artisan bungalow in a quiet and rather poor but well-maintained part of town. They were walking up the steps, both cautious and on edge, when Carlton spied a familiar blue car pulling into a spot in front of the house.

"Oh, dear God," he muttered. Juliet's shoulders sagged.

"The spirits have guided me here!" Shawn called, merrily waving his arms at Juliet before bounding up to them, Gus treading carefully behind him.

"As did the address O'Hara left at her desk," Carlton nodded coldly.

Shawn looked slightly affronted, but his ebullience couldn't be dampened. He knocked sharply on the door, and all four of them were startled when a girl of about fifteen answered. She studied them with sharp green eyes before pushing the screen door open. "Are you here to see Madame Carnouba?" she asked.

"And you are?" Carlton asked her, meeting her stare without so much as a flinch, which made her settle into a less belligerent stance. She eyed him for a moment, then settled her gaze on Shawn, whereupon she looked like she was about to start laughing.

"Cassie," she said. "I'm Madame Carnouba's granddaughter. What do you want with her?"

"We're from the Santa Barbara Police Department," Carlton said, holding up his badge for her inspection. The girl examined the badge for a few moments, then returned her gaze to Shawn. "We just need to ask her a couple of questions."

"You actually think you look _cool_ in that?" she asked Shawn.

Shawn was wearing faded jeans, Converse sneakers and a T-shirt with a picture of Chef Boyardee on it, under which were printed the words 'The Taste That Kids Crave'.

"I _define_ cool," he told her loftily, preening a little.

"And what is your definition of cool? 'Looking like a dork'?" she asked sarcastically, smacking her gum. She looked at Carlton again, who sighed wearily. "You look kinda cool, even if you're kinda old. Nice shirt. Brings out your eyes."

Carlton looked down at his blue T-shirt, flummoxed, not sure if he should feel insulted or not.

Gus snickered. Juliet grinned, clearly pleased. "Is your grandmother home, Cassie?" she asked the girl, in a gentler voice than Carlton had used so far.

"Yeah, whatever," Cassie shrugged, stepping aside and letting them in, Carlton leading the way. He followed his nose down the hallway and finally into a rather dark room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and finally he was able to focus on the woman seated at a table in one corner of the room. He looked around the room, taking in peacock feathers (bad luck), numerous creepy-looking masks and all manner of other occult gee-gaws and crap. A small group of sunken heads hung like onions from the ceiling light, and Carlton figured they couldn't have made the thing look much worse – only a urinal hanging from the ceiling could look any uglier.

The oldish-looking woman reminded him a little of any of the three Weird Sisters from _MacBeth_, only she didn't really exude evil. Instead, she was rather shapeless of form, of no particular height (she was seated), had frizzy gray hair that could have been any color in her younger days, and her eyes were as sharp as knives. Her nose was hook-shaped, and her chin jutted out, Jay Leno-style, adorned with a wart that Carlton figured wasn't actually real. Her age couldn't be accurately determined, either – somewhere between fifty and maybe a thousand.

"Madame Carnouba, I assume?" he asked.

"That is me," she nodded. "And you are…Irish."

"Good guess!" he nodded.

"The Irish don't consult people like me."

"Yeah, we find our answers in the bottom of bottles of Guinness and at The Curragh," he nodded. "I'm Detective Lassiter, this is my partner, Detective O'Hara, and these two are…well, nobody in particular. We just have some questions."

She studied him with interest, leaning forward a little to peer at him with slightly myopic eyes. "You are in love."

"I want…uh, what?"

"Yes. In love. For a long time now."

Juliet raised her eyebrow at her partner, who cleared his throat nervously.

"So who's the unlucky girl, and how long will it be 'til she puts out a restraining order?" Shawn grinned, nudging Gus, who snickered a little.

"You are…a nincompoop," Madame Carnouba said sharply, narrowing her eyes at Shawn, who looked insulted. She settled her gaze back on Carlton, who stared back at her. "And you will be, too, if you don't tell her. Soon."

Juliet cleared her throat and the old priestess looked at her. "You are a very lucky young lady," she said.

Shawn, having recovered a little from being called a nincompoop, grinned. "Exactly. She's my girlfriend."

"Not for long, if she has an ounce of common sense."

"Listen, we're not here to discuss our love lives or whether or not Spencer here is a nincompoop. Not that he's not a nincompoop. He's also a twit, a peddler of monkey-doodle and can't act his way out of a paper bag, but we're not paying customers, so you can't charge us for _our_ opinions," Carlton interrupted. "We need to know what you know about rosary peas and castor beans."

"Poison!" Madame Carnouba snapped.

"Very good. Right under the buzzer," Carlton nodded.

"I do not deal in poisons, or in black magic. I read palms, tea leaves, animal bones, tarot, sheep livers…I consult the spirits…" She centered her gaze on Gus for a moment, making him flinch. "You are going to live a very long life. Sadly, it will be lived without female companionship if you don't stop letting this boob horn in on every aspect of your existence, and seriously, you need to _hide your credit card_!"

Everyone stared at Gus, who was almost too stunned to speak. He finally put his hands on his hips. "Hey, listen, you're not even black! How can you be a voodoo priestess?"

"Thank you, Mister Racist," she snapped. "Voodoo isn't bound by color. You should know that. I practice New Orleans voodoo, mainly, and invoke the spirits. Sometimes they invoke me...keep me up all night. See how I look? I'm really twenty-three years old."

"Do you do zombies? Raise folks from the dead?" Shawn asked her eagerly.

"Of course," Madame Carnouba said, rolling her eyes.

"Really? How many people have you raised from the dead?" Gus challenged her.

"I see no reason to keep records."

"So if there are zombies out there that you raised, how would we recognize them?" Shawn asked her, and Carlton looked at the ceiling, sensing that things were only going to keep going down hill from here.

She snorted derisively. "You can easily recognize a zombie, if you know how to see them. They have hollow eyes, no morals, and they don't have minds of their own…they just blindly obey orders…"

"You mean like Democrats?" Carlton asked, which got him sharp looks from Shawn and Gus, and a snort of laughter from Madame Carnouba.

"Did you recently make some poisons from rosary peas or castor beans?" Juliet asked, cutting through the squabbling and getting down to business and giving her a partner a look that was part amused and part aggravated.

"You are in love, too! You just recently realized it!" Carnouba squawked, centering her gaze on the slender young detective, who immediately turned pink. Shawn looked smug, until the priestess glared at him. "She's not in love with you! _You're_ in love with you, though. A lifelong passion, I think, that will never fade or die."

"What is this, Bash Shawn Day?" Spencer said, looking irritated now.

"I did see some Bash Shawn Day carolers up the street a ways," Carlton nodded. "I gave 'em Bash Shawn Day figgy pudding and some wassail. Madame Carnouba, we are here about the poisons made from those two types of bean. A man was murdered recently, with those types of poisons. Did anyone come to you asking about them, or how to make them?"

"A strange man was here a few days ago," she said. "I know it was a man, but he was not a man."

"You can tell if someone's in love, but you can't tell if somebody's a man or not?" Shawn snapped, his irritation growing.

"He was not dressed as a man." She picked up a deck of tarot cards and began dealing them out. Carlton took a step backwards.

"So he was dressed as…a sheepdog, maybe?" Gus asked.

"No. He was wearing a dress, stupid."

"Why not just say that to begin with?" Carlton snapped. "So did he look more like Jamie Farr or Milton Berle?"

"Who's Milton Berle?" Shawn asked.

"Who's Jamie Farr?" Gus asked.

"He was thin and mousy," Carnouba told Carlton, who was looking pretty well exasperated by now. "High-pitched voice. He wanted to know how to _make_ the poisons, but I would not tell him, as I will not have a hand in killing anyone. I'm sure he figured out how to make them by looking them up online."

"Did he ask you anything about voodoo dolls?" Carlton raised his eyebrow, catching Juliet's slightly amused look.

"You mean that group that sang 'Iris'?" Shawn asked, looking confused.

"That's _Goo Goo Dolls_, Shawn," Juliet corrected.

"See?" Madame Carnouba said, rolling her eyes. "Nincompoop! And yes, he asked about voodoo dolls. I gave him two." She shrugged. "They are not illegal."

Shawn huffed. Gus snickered. Juliet made an 'enough!' gesture, and Carlton blew out his cheeks, his weariness growing. "What did you tell this man?"

"I told him nothing. He brought beans to me, and when I recognized them, I told him to leave." Madame Carnouba continued to deal out her tarot cards, and she finally looked up at Carlton, then at Juliet. "You two make a wonderful person, you know."

"Wha-…huh?" Carlton looked around the room, aghast.

"Two parts of a whole – incomplete apart. Darkness and light. Sun and shadow. Strength and beauty. Both of you are warm, actually – I would have thought you would be cold," she said, nodding at Carlton, who flinched a little. "But no. You are warm, and the wounds are healing well." She suddenly straightened, gripping the edge of her table and staring straight at Juliet and Carlton, expression going blank. "You will have three tall, handsome sons with dark hair and blue eyes and one beautiful blonde daughter."

Shawn looked bewildered, mouth working briefly, until he finally found his voice as he stared at his girlfriend, who was looking at Carlton, wide-eyed. The head detective was blushing.

"Jules…is there something you want to tell me?"


	7. Please! Not That Aisle!

Well, it's short and to the point.

Carlton's joke is from a Gary Mule Deer routine (if you ever get a chance to hear his 'Pit Bull Song', just don't be drinking anything). Juliet's humiliating moment is actually something that I did in a K-Mart in Mexia, Texas, except I was a lot older. My mother pretended she didn't know me.

No, _really_.

We all have Moments Like That, don't we?

Don't we? _Looks around_.

::huffs::

I'm just glad nobody had a camera.

* * *

><p>Shawn followed Juliet outside to the front porch of Madame Carnauba's house, and he drew in his breath, waiting for her to start speaking. He was prepared to counter each of her reasons for dumping him, and hopefully talk her out of it. The look on her face, however, told him that things were not likely to go his way.<p>

"Okay, I want you to listen, okay?" she finally said.

He nodded, drawing in a careful breath.

"Well, I won't do the 'it's not you, it's me' thing, because that's a lie, and any woman who says that to a guy is a…well, a jerk. So I'll be honest. It is you, actually."

"Oh…" His brow furrowed in confusion. He had heard the 'it's not you, it's me' speech innumerable times, and they had hurt a little at the time. He had also heard the 'it's definitely you' speech a few times as well, and those had usually involved a very real danger of physical harm. Shawn supposed he should be grateful that Juliet wasn't angry at him – only resigned, which was ten times more depressing than any dumpage he had ever gone through before.

"I'm sorry, Shawn. I really am. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for this to happen between me and Carlton…" She sighed and shook her head. "Well, that's a lie, too, and I don't want to do that to you. I wanted it to happen, and I was hoping it would happen, way in the back of my mind, but…anyway, that isn't really the point. Carlton isn't the reason for what's happening now."

"Like hell he's not!" Shawn snapped, unable to hide his very real hurt. "What did he do?"

She shook her head again. "He didn't do anything, Shawn. He's been in a full panic all afternoon. And stop trying to deflect this onto him, because I still would have to end this, whether he was in the picture or not, okay? You and I…we had fun. I don't really regret _us_ that much, except that I really was hoping you would show some signs of growth, of becoming a responsible adult, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that a person can't change, and shouldn't change, to please other people. They should do it for themselves, because they recognize the flaws and want to make the improvements for their own good. Do you understand what I mean?"

Shawn nodded, looking at his feet. "So you love him, huh? Like that old crone in there said?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I do. I think I always did, to varying degrees over the years. Now there's a real chance it could actually happen and I can't pass it up. I won't. I'm going for it."

"Damn it, Jules…we're talking about _Lassie_ here! Who wears suits to the beach and never tells jokes and has ten guns hidden all over his house. How can he make you happy?"

"He doesn't have to _make_ me happy, Shawn. That's not how a relationship works. It's about give and take, of being equals, of _wanting_ the other person to be happy…it's about making sacrifices and being able to _listen_ and put that person first. There's no equal partnership with you, Shawn. It's just _you_. And partners shouldn't always have to make excuses for each other, or explain why they're doing what they're doing or saying. I understand why Carlton behaves the way he does, and it's okay, because he gets why I behave the way I do. I _get him_, and I know he gets me. We speak the same language. I never have been able to _get_ you, Shawn. I don't understand why a thirty-six year old man behaves like a twelve-year old, and I don't get why you want to. I never will understand that, but that's what makes_ you_ happy, and that's okay. It's just not what I want to have to cope with for the rest of my life."

He looked exasperated and hurt at once. "So that's what it was? You were just coping with me?" he asked her, and for once, he was showing – and acting – his age, and she felt such sorrow for him, because it was just too late now.

"I was…biding my time," she said at last, spreading her hands. "I was waiting, at first, to see if you would grow up, or at least start taking some responsibility for some of your…less than charming behavior, but mainly I was waiting for Carlton to make a move."

"And so today, he did? The son of a b-…"

"Don't say that, Shawn. It's unfair. He didn't do anything wrong. You didn't either, really – aside from the lying and the stealing and getting into peoples' personal information, which is creepy and reprehensible, by the way. You were just always…yourself. It's not wrong to be Peter Pan, but it wears everybody else out. It's exhausting for the people who love you, because they see all the potential that's being wasted on Easy Bake Ovens and old horror movies and making snarky comments at people in authority and never apologizing for anything. Even Wendy grew up and had to leave Never-Never Land, Shawn."

"So it is because I'm a nincompoop," he said, with a shrug and a wry smile.

"You're not a total nincompoop," she smiled affectionately. "You just have an excess number of nincompoopy moments that border on the ridiculous and rather embarrassing and potentially dangerous, and it's just so…_tiring_, but I honestly wouldn't ever ask you to change, because then you wouldn't be you. You enjoy the freedom to do whatever you please, with no consequences, and that's fun for now, but I really should warn you – the consequences will come, sooner or later, and they won't be pleasant."

He sighed. "But…you want _Quickdraw McGraw_? Jules…"

"Shawn. Stop. I know this hurts, but you'll get past it. You'll bounce back. You always do."

"Yeah…that's me. The old rubber ball." He leaned against the porch railing, hands stuffed in his pockets, and she gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm sorry," she said, and went back inside, feeling as though a door had closed in her life and another had opened – and always, opening and closing doors was painful and noisy and difficult, but it all had to be done. She only regretted that she had waited so long, and had kept making excuses to delay the inevitable. She knew Shawn would be all right, though. Now it was just a matter of getting Carlton to see that he had plenty to offer.

And to calm down about it.

Making her way down the pokey hallway, she heard voices in the room where she had left Carlton with Gus and Madame Carnauba, and she paused in the doorway, listening, curious, because she could hear Carlton speaking.

"Can you give a more detailed description of the guy in the dress?" he asking, his voice traced with just a little bit of acid and a hint of unease.

"He was kind of…blah. A nothing in particular sort of man, aside from the dress, that is. He was gray," Madame Carnauba said, sounding dismissive. "The young lady has ended it with the nincompoop," she told him.

Carlton sighed. "He's not a total nincompoop. He's a fairly good…er…detective, if that's the word to use."

"Yet he never noticed that you look at that young woman the way a fat man looks at fried food," Carnauba said sharply, and Juliet could almost picture Carlton's eyes narrowing. She knew he didn't like being sussed out so easily, and she decided to get in there before he started going medieval on the priestess. "Some detective."

"Madame Carnauba, did he have any identifying marks, scars…?" Juliet asked, taking a seat behind Carlton, who stared at her for a moment before clearing his throat nervously. "Thinking about fried food, Carlton?" she asked, smiling at him. He wheezed slightly and looked up at the shrunken heads hanging from the light fixture. Madame Carnauba only shrugged, shaking her head.

"What I'm thinking about right now probably is illegal in about forty of the contiguous United States," he finally told her. Madame Carnauba snickered, and Juliet couldn't keep from giggling.

* * *

><p>"Okay, so Madame Carnauba confirmed that it was indeed whatsisname…George Pons." Carlton nodded, tapping the photograph he had shown to voodoo priestess. He watched the Blueberry pull away from the curb, a subdued Spencer in the passenger seat. "You…you actually…ended it with him?"<p>

"Yes, Carlton. I did." She watched her partner carefully, searching for a triumphant smirk or some indication that he might do a jig. Instead, he was very still, expression wary.

"Right."

"I'm going to guess that you'll demand time to wrap your head around this?" she said, moving just a little closer to him. They were standing on the sidewalk, watching three young girls play jump-rope. To her surprise – and pleasure – he didn't take a step back. He let her invade his space and didn't really seem very uncomfortable about it. In fact, he actually seemed pretty comfortable. He didn't even glance at the three little girls. Instead, his intense blue gaze was on her, making her feel a little dizzy.

"You're on the rebound," he said at last.

"No. I'm not. I know exactly what I want, and I'm looking at him. I've just been wasting time, and I'm sorry about that. But I do understand you needing some space now."

"We also need to solve this crime. We've got circumstantial evidence right now, but we need to…uh…find actual concrete evidence that…" She interrupted him by standing on her toes and kissing him, sweet and soft, and the three girls stopped singing and stared at them, expressions somewhere between amused and aghast.

Juliet stepped back and looked up at him, waiting for him to react. He squeezed his eyes shut, and finally shook his head as if to clear it. Finally, he peered at her, looking nervous. "I should really call home and check to see if I'm still asleep, because this has to be some kind of…of…_dream_."

"You're wide awake, Carlton," Juliet said with a laugh. "Oh, by the way…tell me a joke."

"What?"

"Tell me a joke."

He stared at her, bewildered, and finally rubbed his chin, thinking. "Okay! A joke. Uh…three little boys find five bucks. The first little boy says, 'Let's buy a bunch of candy'. The other little boys say, 'We can't do that. We buy a bunch of candy, we'll just eat it all up at once. It'll ruin our suppers, rot our teeth and our Moms'll kill us'. Second little boy says, 'Let's go to the movie!' Other little boys say, 'We can't do that. It costs two bucks a piece to go the movie, and there's three of us…we're a buck short!' Finally, the third little boy says, 'Let's just go buy some Tampax'. The other little boys say, 'What?' He says, 'Sure, with Tampax, you can go swimming, horse-back riding, play tennis…'."

For a moment, she stared at him, then she just started giggling. "Oh my God…"

"I'm sorry! It's the only one I could think of. The other was about Thomas Edison and a lightbulb and it needs more setup…and there's another that I know about an old Sioux chieftain, but it's totally un-PC and you'll smack me…"

"You _so _can tell a joke!" she crowed, delighted, clapping her hands.

"A bad one," he nodded, shrugging helplessly.

"It's actually pretty good. Shall we go?"

He opened the car door for her, and she slid in, smiling when he glanced at her legs. He went around and got in, turning the engine before turning to look at her. "You know…uh…speaking of Tampax…not that I really want to, but after six years, it's finally less horrifying to remember…whenever Victoria wanted to punish me for some misdeed, real or imagined, she would send me to the drugstore to buy her feminine hygiene products."

"Oh, ew…" Juliet shuddered. "How awful. What a cruel woman!"

"Yeah. I'd be on the phone, pleading with her. 'Please, baby, I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'll be happy to just go to my room and think about it for the rest of the day, if you'll please just let me come home'." He shook his head and pulled into traffic. "I mean, that stuff is…_horrifying_. Worse than any crime scene I've ever seen. Extra-long, extra short, night-time, day-time, extra wide, extra narrow, heavy, light, medium, scented, unscented, hypoallergenic, winged, unwinged, _quilted_…and there I'd be, the local neighborhood pervert wandering the feminine product aisle, wanting to die."

Juliet was laughing so hard by then she thought she was going to crack a rib.

"And don't even get me _started_ on the Tampax…" he said ruefully, rubbing his temple. "I nearly had a stroke, first time I ever saw one of those things…oh my God, I can't believe I said that. Yep, that's me…tactless, _mal apropos_ Carlton Lassiter. I swear, Juliet, I will never talk about that subject again."

She screamed with laughter. She loved the way her name looked on his lips and how he said it, and she pushed his shoulder, wishing she could kiss him now, if only to shut him up, but he might wreck the car.

He grinned at her, looking a little less embarrassed. "And I won't. I will _not_. So long as you don't, either. And when those dreadful commercials come on, please excuse me if I leave the room and am found whimpering in the shower." He shrugged. "So I get a little dramatic. It's a form of post traumatic stress, as I understand it."

"You know, my most embarrassing moment _ever_ was when I was thirteen - I picked up a Pyrex dish in a K-Mart, held it up, and yelled to my mother, 'Mom! Look at this pretty blue Playtex dish!'"

He snickered. "You're a geekess, I'm an idiot. Who knows but that this could actually work."

"I know it will," she told him, smiling. "Isn't it _wonderful_?"

"Yeah. Brightened up my day considerably, I must admit." When they stopped at a red light, he leaned over and kissed her senseless, just to teach her a proper lesson, and looked smug when the light turned green.

"The light's green, Carlton," she finally managed to say.

"And how."


End file.
